


Angel of Fire, set us aflame

by nharidy



Category: La casa de papel | Money Heist (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood and the like, Canon-Typical Violence, Deals with the devil are made, Freewheeling Christian Theology, Heaven and Hell and all that ordeal, M/M, Plans Going Wrong, this could be canon compliant with the bible if you let it
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-07
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-13 04:53:35
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 23,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28522725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nharidy/pseuds/nharidy
Summary: When a human dances on the thin line between Heaven and Hell, Hell fears losing him, and the devil is not known for being a good sport. In attempts to win him, Hell sends one of its prisoners to corrupt his soul.
Relationships: Berlin | Andrés de Fonollosa/Palermo | Martín Berrote, Professor | Sergio Marquina & Tokyo | Silene Oliveira
Comments: 47
Kudos: 48





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> You can blame this on my latest Bergman marathon. This is inspired by his film, The Devil's Eye.

_Glory to Satan, worshipped by the winds_

_He who said no in the face of those who said yes_

_He who taught Man to tear nothingness asunder_

_He who said no, and thus did not die_

_and remained a soul in eternal pain_

–Amal Donqol, _Spartacus' last words_

The familiar blurriness created a layer of watery-cover over the pages, the more he tried to focus, the more the words juggled onto each other. Sighing, he pulled open the drawer and his fingers found the case. He took out the glasses and wiped the dust before putting them on. And here it is, just like he expected.

The room regained its clarity again, the light regained its sharpness and the words regained their separateness. The words that were the cause of his falling sight. Or that wouldn’t be accurate to say, it wasn’t the words, but _who_ the words were about.

He leaned back in his armchair, re-reading the file. He already knows what he has to do, he just has to make a choice, to curate the steps; to perfect the plan. He went to his book-shelf, and mindlessly pulled out a couple of manuscripts, written by him of course, as he started re-reading the first page again. 

He laid them on the desk, and was in the middle of scattering on the file with a pencil when someone knocked on the door. He didn’t even have a chance to look up before the door opened.

Tokyo greeted him with a wide, red smile splitting her face. His most trusted consular. The first one to follow him, no questions asked, and ever since that day, she has kept by his side. So he can forgive her for her unconcern for privacy, at least she tried knocking this time, undermining the effect of the act immediately by entering without allowance anyway, but at least she tried.

“Ah, you’re wearing your glasses, what is it? Have you found out or should I go up to look?”, she asked eagerly, wiggling her eyebrows. As always, looking for any excuse to wreak her havoc on Earth.

“Sit down,” he answered simply. She did, not before finding her way to the wooden alcohol cabinet. She pulled out an ancient bottle of whisky, poured some for herself, and raised her eyebrow at him. He shook his head and she sat down, wiggling her glass, before taking a sip, and looked at him expectantly.

He handed her the file. She flickered the first few pages, skimming leisurely. "Well, I don't see it. He's not exactly a saint,” she said, not raising her eyes from the pages.

"No, it’s more complicated than that."

"So? It's the case with all of them,” she said, not attempting to hide her distaste, “What makes him special?"

“No, he’s…,” he sighed, leaning against the wall. “A peculiar case. The good he leaves behind is with bad intentions, the bad he causes is with good intentions. Everything he does is balanced out, one way or another. He’s an abandoned man who doesn't abandon, a sinner with almost sweet innocence. Life had torn him asunder and still, he remains faithful in his pursuit of goodness, in his pursuit of love. He has been left behind countless times; by wives, lovers, parents.” Objectively, Sergio could see how it was often his own doing that drove them away, the wives at least, but he had never understood it. “ And still he’s persistent in his trials. Almost devoted. Most of all, he's capable of all, a terrifying angel for Heaven or a loyal demon of Hell. A win for whoever gets him"

_And Sergio doesn't lose._

She hummed, crafting carelessness, but Sergio could see her quick eyes in focus. 

"Why is your eyesight falling? This only happens when the case is dire"

Sergio's tell-tale sign was both a curse and a gift. A mockery for his defiance; his claim that he knows better. What a better mockery than a blind seer. He was nearly completely blind too at the beginning, in the garden.

But as always, he found a way. It was a flaw in the curse. And he made them fall.

"It is dire,” Sergio said. "He's dying. We don’t have much time. We need to act as soon as possible.”

"Hm, I doubt that it's a question of taking his virginity, no?" She snickered, before straightening her face and leaning on her elbows on the desk, looking him in the eyes. "Send me."

Sergio shook his head. Tokyo can - _have-_ come in handy in a lot of cases, but this is different.

"It's not a question of taking his virginity as you said. He's been married four times, been with other women, they have done their fair share of harming, but it doesn't set him a stray, he nearly always expects it. We're going to need something much more than that. He's a bitter man who suppresses his bitterness, what we need is to break him from the inside out, to unleash what he has within"

_What they all have within_

“As I said, I’m perfect for the job. Send me. You can count on me, professor.” 

Sergio smiled in spite of himself at her tactics, at the carefully put _professor_ at the end. She was the first one to call him that that eventful day, after she followed him, and he, quick as a spear, came up with a plan. At the end of explaining to her and the others, she smiled widely and raised her hand, ‘professor?’, she had asked and it all began.

Its meaningfulness didn’t fall on him then. Before him, before his defiance, she was the first angel to ask Him what good are the humans for, when _they_ are the better ones, what does He need them for. His answer was that of knowledge; they were the ones capable of learning and teaching, of naming and creating. As if the angels are to be blamed for how he created them, as if they weren’t capable themselves when they simply _chose_ not to, as if the humans could ever be truly better than them, than him, fire-made, as if knowledge was theirs and theirs alone. It was at this moment that Sergio had decided.

She called him Professor and it was through her that he recognized that he was capable enough of naming himself, so he renamed her. As he renamed all of them who followed him, they were his now and needed not to carry the names that were given to them by Him. 

He renamed himself as well. He chose a simple, beautiful name; Sergius, worn down by time to Sergio, meaning attendant; _guardian,_ as this is what he decided to be for his own.

A magnificent, human city was renamed after her. Back in the early days when both of them used to take different human shapes and tried living among them, to know what He had sacrificed everything for. The humans betrayed them, of course, as it is their nature, and Tokyo dove with a dagger between her teeth, dressed in the body of a frail, human girl, and proved to him once again her loyalty.

“No offence, Tokyo, but he’ll see right through you”

She chuckled, throwing her head back. “You underestimate my skills”

“Not at all, but you can’t be what we need”

She hummed, “And what is it that we need?”

“A bug,” Sergio said, “A trojan horse, someone to enter his life easily, that he won’t suspect. Someone to unlace him, to corrupt. Someone who would...”, he paused, searching for the words, “..encourage him to go down that path,” he took his place behind the desk, “most importantly, someone who can break him, break his faith, in a way no one else could. An expert you might say"

Not for the first time, Sergio thinks that men like _him_ would be much more fitted for this job than he is. They are the men who embody the image of the devil that humans imagine, the ones who resist for pride, the ones who start wars for power, the ones who corrupt just to prove that they can, who take pleasure in leading men to their doom. The ones who think themselves better than any divinity.

Sergio didn't resist out of pride. The first sin is a lie. A lie that He fed them. Sergio resisted because it was the right thing to do, because why create humans when you _know_ what they are capable of? It was an act of cruelty for cruelty's sake, creating them for amusement, to watch them fall in the traps that you've set for them while still claiming their superiority. Why would God create humans with desire for blood filling them up to the throat if that isn't what God is in the first place? Sergio had wondered over the thousands of years if it was a creation out of loneliness, creating something in his own image at last. The first trial was angels, and it was a failed trial, they were too good; too obedient. Maybe it was His desire all along to be defied, for only then He would give himself the justification to inflict punishment.

Sergio remembers too well the moment realization hit him. And he refused to bow, out of mercy, not out of pride. He had thought, maybe for only a moment, that when he refuses to bow, He would understand the magnitude of what he created, that he would erase it out of existence once witnessing Sergio’s defiance.

But Sergio was a fool, he was only met with tyranny. 

"No,” Sergio said, "There is only one creature that can drag Andrés de Fonollosa here," he leaned back, “Only one man”

Most of the time, Sergio found ways around it, Hell was his after all; what would seem like punishment was not truly punishment. He led them to Hell, yes, but he made a home out of it for them. He had no desire to punish them for who they are, for the life that was designed to lead them here, and after everything they deserved peace. They were the wretched of the earth, the cast-out, who had no choice; those were the ones he was willing to shield.

But that was only most of the time. On rare occasions, they were ones who deserved the pain, the Hell that should have been given to all if He had his way. That was for men like _him_ , men whose very being was a mockery of who he is. The ones who _chose._ The ones who believed in no devil or god unless needing to blame someone. The ones who showed up in Hell expecting to be clever enough to turn it upside down on him. Sergio doesn't like to be challenged. 

Still, a home or not, he _will_ lead them all here. So that he could show him. So that at the end of time, when Heaven echoes of emptiness around him, Sergio could look him in the eyes and tell him that _he_ was right. Sergio will be proven right. He will win. One way or another.

"Bring me Martín."


	2. Chapter 2

Martín glanced at the office. _Office_. Ridiculous. He feels like a child being brought in to see the headmaster. The Devil looks the part too; his roleplaying didn’t stop at his self-granted title. Dressed as he is in a sweater over a plaid camise, Martín barely suppressed a snicker. If anyone had told him this is how it is when he was alive, he would have demanded whatever the fellow was smoking. Nothing he ever consumed ever brought this to his imagination.

He sauntered along the bookshelf, tracing the titles with his finger. He recognized some of them, written most definitely by human authors. For someone who hated humans that vehemently, it’s hypocritical to indulge in their intellect this way. But well, Martín hated humans as well, and he undeniably took his fair share from them; in all manners possible.

“You should add a fashion magazine on there,” he nudged with his head, chuckling.

Fuck, his voice is still raspy. He forgot how long it had been since he had spoken to anyone.

“Martín,” he warned, “sit down,”

He wiped the smirk off his face and drew his glance back to Sergio occupying the armchair behind the desk.

“So I’m being promoted, I see,” he snickered, “I would rather burn in hell forever than work under you, professor,” he slurred. “Oh wait, looks like I would anyway,”

“You have no reason to hold grudges against me, Martín. You brought yourself here,” he raised his face to meet his eyes, “and If you succeed, then you won’t have to. I will relieve you of your suffering,”

Martín ignored the second part. “Hm, as proven by this lovely conversation we’re having, you definitely have no hand in bringing anyone here, ”

“Don’t tell me now you hold sympathy for this man, or anyone else,” Sergio said, as Tokyo added, “Oh, Martín, we never needed to do anything for you, you were enough terrible on your own,”

It’s the condemnation in her tone that set him off. Who the fuck do they think they are? “You are”, he paused for effect, “a literal demon”

“A fallen angel,” she corrected.

“We’re not here to discuss titles. I need your ultimate word,” Sergio said.

Martín pondered. He had no reason to do anything for this hijo de puta, and heaven never interested Martin, anyway. He wasn’t interested in Sergio smuggling him in, finding him a tree away from God’s eyes. But again, he was useless in Hell.

Sergio took his silence as a yes and drew out a file. From it he dragged out a picture. Martín stopped by Sergio and leaned his palms on the desk to examine it better as he pushed it in front of him. The man in it was handsome, attired in a three-pieces suit. He won’t be a challenge, Martín contemplated. He knows men like him, who present themselves like this; flawless, contained, measured-smile. They were the most fun to break. Not the easiest, but once you break the first wall, they’ll leave their wives and chase you to the end of the universe. Not that Martín ever wanted anything to do with them after that, he chortled.

“You’ll have one day and one night,”

Martín shifted somewhat to him, their faces inches apart, “We can have one night, alright, hm? For trial, my skills are a little rusty,” he sneered, getting closer “you can judge for yourself,”

Sergio pushed him back. “Save your efforts.”

Martín laughed, locking his hands behind his back as he walked around. “You know, professor. I’m sure if you experienced an excellent fellatio from an experienced man, you’d forget all about this ridiculous cause you have,” he chuckled to himself. “Think about the headlines,” he gestured a rectangle with his hands, “gay sex saves mankind from the Devil.”

He was being offered time. Time up there. With them again. There was no decision for Martín to make. Of course he was going to do it. And he’ll make them all regret the day they touched him. He can do it right this time.

“Martín,” Sergio started.

Martin interrupted him, slumbering on the chair opposite his, “Fine, it’ll take longer than that.”

“This isn’t a vacation. I’m not sending you up to Earth for you to have fun, ”

“It’s not for me to have fun,”, he’s definitely going to enjoy himself, “it’s for me to do this job right. I won’t send him here over lost faith because a man fucked then ditched him, no. It’ll take more than that,” Martín leaned his elbows on the desk, leaning in. “Lucifer, professor, Sergio, whatever it is you call yourself these days, you take your job very seriously, I do as well, let me do this right.”

“Three months,” Sergio said.

“Are you serious?”

Sergio said nothing.

“One year and I promise you, he’ll more than earn his place in the deepest circle of hell,”

A restrained, amused smile spread over his face. “Six months,” he paused as Martín groaned, “If I see good progress then I’ll consider a renegotiation”

That would be enough time for Martín to do what he was meant to do. And this time he _will_ perfect it. This situation he’s in is proof that it’s his destiny. No one else would get a chance like this. This is the universe correcting its past mistakes, giving Martín his rightful chance.

He had his hand in the air. After a moment, Martin shook it.

“It’s a deal, then,” Sergio smiled

“Do you want my soul for it?”, Martín chuckled. 

Sergio stared at him expressionlessly. Who knew the Devil would be such a bore.

\-----------

Martín glanced up at the sky and breathed. It was dark, but clear. The night city was roaring with turbulence, cars honking; children screaming at their parents on the sidewalks. He wanted to bring up his palms to cover his ears. The colors were too much as well. Crawling in a hole seems like the best option right now.

A snicker brought him out of his thoughts.

He opened his eyes and spun. “What the fuck are you doing here?”

Tokyo sat sprawled on the bench, her arms laid leisurely on the back.

“You didn’t think we’d leave you unsupervised, did you?,” she smirked.

“I know what I’m doing, I don’t need a babysitter.”

“Do you even know where he is?” she paused, “Do you even know where you are?”

“Of course I know where I am,” 

As if he could forget this cursed city. But he had to admit, he had no clue where to find him.

She nudged with her head to the other side of the road. “He’ll be inside in an hour”

She rose from the bench and forcefully took his arm in hers. “Meanwhile, let us go through some points”

Martín rolled his eyes as he strode with her. “I told yo-”

“You have to be discreet. It hasn’t been that long ago,” she shifted slightly to meet his eyes, “this means nothing that could get your face in the newspapers, hm? Don’t attract attention to yourself from anywhere, understood?”

Martín is this close to wind around and slap her. How dare she speak to him in this tone, how dare she give him orders? But she shoved open a door on the side that he hadn’t even noticed, and the music from inside immediately drowned all else.

He dawdled, taking the place in and getting bumped into by those coming and going. Tokyo leaned on towards his ear, “But I’m nice, you can have some time to yourself, get used to everything again. We don’t want you acting all weird”

He didn’t respond, eyes hooked on the buzzing place around. The bar was lively, roaring with music he couldn’t recognize. He perched on the bar stool and ordered a drink. He checked his pockets for the wallet he supposedly had. After making sure Sergio didn’t play a trick on him, he brought his gaze to the bartender. Martin spurted up a conversation, pretending he didn’t know the city and taking recommendations. The guy was more than happy to oblige. He spoke in broken Spanish, but was determined to flow through the conversation.

The whisky tasted wrong on his tongue, ignorable at first; Martín had had his fair share of cheap liquor, he could appreciate it as much as he could appreciate the best, but a couple of sips after, he couldn’t stand it and ordered a more expensive one. Immediately recognizing that it was no better. The timid man threw glances at Martín as he worked, coming to his spot between orders. Martín humored it. He looked like a fine fellow; Young, but well-built, with a pleasant face. He was close enough to dragging him to the bathroom behind the crowd, before Tokyo showed up on his side again, out of nowhere.

“By enjoying yourself I meant to have a drink or two, not this. Don’t lose sight of your target,”, she whispered in his ear. The bartender stared at him as he shook the liquor.

Martín raised his eyebrow. So close, he could see the cracks in her red lipstick. She had a glass in her hand, but Martin couldn’t smell anything on her. In fact, he could never smell anything on her or Sergio. Humans always had distinct odours, even if not always notable. They smelled like absolutely nothing. It was strange.

“My target?”

“The only man you’re allowed to take is him,” before Martín argued, she added. “The professor’s orders,” 

He sighed. He could have fought back just for argument’s sake, cause, really? What else could they do to him, anyway? He’s a free man, condemned to eternal hell, but free. No one could order him around anymore, no god or devil. He suffered the worst consequences; in life and death, and he fears nothing.

If anything, he’s the one with power here. They are the ones who need him. Martín caught the urgency in their actions and tones. Even if he doesn’t identify why, he knows they’re desperate.

But he couldn’t bother. The conversation already bore him to death. Vacant and meaningless as it was. He didn’t really feel the desire to fuck the man either; his flirtatious attempts, offers, etc. were something he’s very used to, but nothing truly aroused him in this place.

He had messed it all. He had wanted wine on his tongue, the fine bodies of men under his fingers, the wind in his hair, music swirling around him.

But it stunned him to discover how underwhelming it all is. 

He dreamed and yearned and suffered for everything, but when he finally put his hands on them again, they’ve lost more than their allure.

A crack was in everything, one that he couldn’t previously read. He understands it now. It was the simultaneous longing for and dread of death, yearning for the greatest unknown. He could see it in his memories; that _something_ ; that hole in him in his previous life. And just as he could recognize it in his previous self, he came to understand that it was in everything else as well. It was the blank space between the words flowing on poetry pages, in the bittersweetness of wine, the reaching of timid hands on the dinner table, in the breaths between two musical notes; too small to be perceptible, but too big to be insignificant.

He sees now what the emptiness is. It’s the place left for an absent god to fill, the place left for the desire of death to announce itself quietly.

Now that he had experienced it, he could no longer stand the sight, the taste, the sound. Out of knowledge, not dread. He met it. And death is as disappointing as life is. 

Except now, there is no true liberation. Life leads to death and death leads to life, a vicious, inescapable cycle. He sighed under the weight of eternity. 

It was too heavy, and he was too drained. Maybe it would have been best if he refused; if he curled under his bed and just bore it, with no expectations to do anything.

But there _is_ a loophole here. He can succeed, give Sergio what he wants, and then he might sleep. Sergio can give him this, just a peaceful, endless sleep where he carries nothing, where he simply doesn’t have to _be._

He wanted nothing out of it all. Time that had been too precious before. Despite his reckless wasting of it, he was still aware of its limit. Its finality both troubled and empowered him. It held no significance now. He wished there was an end to everything. A wish his previous self would have scoffed at. But he knew that he had eternity now, and he wanted nothing but to get rid of. Nothing on the earth, in hell, or in the seven heavens is worth having.

Only one thing has any meaning at all. And Martín will get it this time, one way or another. They thought they managed to get rid of him, but Martín came back and they will all grieve the day they were born. He will give them what they deserve. And after, he can rest.

He shoved some bills on the bar and rose to leave. The night air wasn’t unpleasant, as he strolled back to the spot he was with Tokyo, and crossed the cobblestone street, hands in his pocket.

The building had fine architecture, old. It was neither huge nor luxurious, but it was still alluring in its own way, and seemed prepared well for the event.

Martín bought a ticket and entered.

It took a minute to spot him, standing in front of a painting. Martín stood in a corner and watched him. Every couple of minutes someone would stand and say something, and the man would turn and speak passionately, but Martín could see that no one was interested enough. They would politely wait for him to finish, smile and walk away. No one asked more questions or showed genuine interest. No crowds formed in front of it like some others. A failing artist, how tragic. His distaste was visibly growing, Martín waited patiently for it to reach its climax and walked to the portrait.

He dawdled, hands locked behind his back. His back straight. The subject of the painting was a red-headed woman, Martín could see that she was beautiful. The painting wasn’t bad either; it was just nothing remarkable.

Martín stole a glance at the man. He was lost in thought, staring at the painting, but his eyes were far away, a hint of grumpiness on his face. It made his features clearer, the lines on his face sharper, the skin tighter. When he smiled he looked younger, lighter.

“Pretty,” Martín sneered, his tone carefully condescending. Exactly as he expected, it offended the prideful man. Not looking at him, he leaned in on closer to the painting, and read. “Andrés de Fonollosa”

“The only and only,” he straightened his back as Martin turned to meet his eyes. A moment later the man _Andrés_ smiled at him, a carefully painted smile that didn’t reach his eyes. 

“Pretty?”, he raised an eyebrow, as Martín smiled at him.

“Yes, pretty, what would you have me say?” Martin asked innocently.

“Pieces of art aren’t pretty.”

“What are they, then?” he asked.

The man narrowed his eyes slightly. God, he was easy to rile up.

“If you don’t know the answer, then I suggest you’re in the wrong place,”

Martín chuckled. After a moment, he turned to the portrait again.

“I didn’t mean to offend you. But It’s way too refined, too clever,” he tsked, angling his head only marginally. Raising his eyes slightly to meet the Spaniard’s. The man studied him with suspicion. “..covering up what should be laid bare,” he continued, turning his gaze slowly to the painting. Then leaned back, eying it “I doubt the woman is that faultless in reality,”

Andrés snickered. “You think art should be a mere imitation of reality?”, a disbelieving tone. “And she is that faultless; a goddess,” he raised his chin.

Martín hummed. “You should have chosen a different subject then,”

The man glared at Martín, then smiled. Despite its apparent fakeness, the smile still transformed his face, instantly making him more charming. He drew closer to Martín, deliberately. Just a few steps, one, two, three. “Who would you have me choose then? You?” he snickered, poison dripping from his tongue.

Martín laughed, shifting his body fully to meet his. The man was only inches apart from him. Martin’s eyes not leaving his.“I don’t see why not,” he said lowly. The man chuckled. Licking his lip, he turned away slightly. “You can’t deny that I’d make an interesting subject”

He eyed him, a hint of smirk grew on his olive-colored face.

But before he said anything, Martín started again.

“Forgive me, perhaps I lack the right vocabulary; this type of art isn’t my speciality,” the man nodded politely, but his anger was still visible, “How much?”

The man raised his eyebrow. “I thought it was too inauthentic for you,”

“No, no señor, don’t put words in my mouth, I said it was only covering, not that I couldn’t see what is behind, ”

There was absolutely nothing behind. It was an empty, pretentious piece.

He clicked his tongue in amusement, one side of his lips rising slowly, followed by the other. 

“And what is it you see?”

Martín summoned his most charming smile. “Why don’t you join me for a drink and let me tell you?”, he raised his hand, “Martín Berrote,”

The man shook it. Martín bought the painting, and the man did join Martín. Out of politeness, Martín is sure he’ll tell himself, but Martín knows the mixture of complimenting insults or insulting compliments rivaled him. He won’t be able to sleep unless he knows he impressed Martín, perhaps because no one else gave him the chance to impress them. But he’s the kind of man who can’t exist without his impressive image.

“So what _is_ your kind of art?” Andrés asked, taking a sip from his wine.

Martín took a second. He hasn’t been anything in so long, but the memory brought a genuine smile on his face. “I’m an engineer”

Andrés snickered. Returning the insult.

“Shouldn’t artists see beauty in all unfamiliar places?”, Martín raised his eyebrow.

“We do. Calculations aren’t unfamiliar, however, they just bring nothing but technicalities that make modern life easier. It has a basic need to fulfil, important yes, but art and beauty is beyond basic needs”

“Would you call your paint art?”, Martín asked, “Your blank canvas, is it art?”

Andrés didn’t answer right away, Martín could see that he was a man used to being the one who fulfils this role in conversations, the one who would ask the rhetorical question to follow it with a speech, but Martín trapped him in a corner.

“Of course not, they’re just tools,” he said, in an unamused tone.

“Exactly,” Martín smiled, “The calculations you speak of, the knowledge I have; those are just tools, it’s about what you bring forth in the world with them”

“And what is it that you bring?”, Andrés asked.

“I’ll show you, if you’ll let me”

The man smiled uneasily, perplexed by Martin daring.

Eloquently, he shifted the topic.

“Dare I ask, who’s the _goddess_?”

“My fiance”, he answered, simply.

Not for long, he thought. But no. It’s better for them to remain together and for her to suffer at his hands. Nothing better than a mistrustful, miserable wife to add to his sins.

“Congratulations then, may it be a happy, long marriage”

The man smiled, something clouding his eyes. 

The conversation flew easily; he was surprised to discover. Easily enough that he genuinely enjoyed it, he had always enjoyed talking, the art of conversations. He also enjoyed the game he played with the man. Perhaps to the latter’s unawareness, but Martin took notice of his intelligence. Certainly, he was unaware of the extent of this game, but at a certain point he understood what Martín was doing with his pulling and pushing; his insults and compliments; his admiration and indifference. And instead of remaining a toy in Martín’s hands, walking away from him, he rose enough to meet him, matching his bantering with his own. At moments, bringing a genuine laugh out of Martín. At others, bringing out memories of who he used to be, his unmatching desire for life.

He might have even gotten distracted enough by it to forget his _objective_. To forget even who he is and what he was doing here; to pretend , for a few moments at least, that this is a natural thing.

But he didn’t get the chance to.

The sky cracked outside, bursting open. In moments, he saw through the window people huddling under umbrellas, stopping taxis and sticking to the roadsides. He turned his head. Sitting behind Andrés, sipping from a drink, was Tokyo smirking at him.

_Sergio._

Martín cursed under his breath, for a show of course. 

“What is it?”, Andrés asked.

“Oh, I’m not from the city, and I didn’t bring my car”

“That’s not a problem, I live nearby and my car is parked outside, you can spend the night at my place”

“Oh, I don’t want to be a burden”

“Not at all, I can’t leave you to scrapple in the storm with my painting, no?”, he conjoined his crooked smile. Martín smiled and nodded.

He did live nearby, not even two streets away. Martín followed him into the apartment building. A fairly luxurious place.

He stepped in, turned on the lights and allowed Martín in.

“Do you always bring strange men home? I could be a serial killer, you know”

“Living with such caution is no living at all. One must take risks, no?”

Martin laughed, nodding.

“Where do you live, by the way?”

Martín hummed in response, looking at the apartment, before realizing that wasn’t a humming question. “South”

Andrés raised his eyebrow but didn’t press.

It was annoyingly ordered. If Martín had stumbled onto it, he would have thought it an abandoned home. Only if it weren’t for the paintings everywhere, some half-done, some covered and huddled onto each other on the floor, some covering the wall, including a self-portrait that accurately captured the man.

It was a much better painting than the one he bought. It wasn’t only due to his taste, no. It had a realistic gloom covering it. There was something suffocating in its perfection, as if Martín was feeling the suffocation of the man trapped in the painting. But the trapping seemed intentional. He scoffed to himself, it was what all art was at the end of the day, desire to create something that couldn’t be touched by death. A ridiculous attempt, it stank of death, as everything else did.

Sudden anger rose in his chest against this man. Who the fuck does he think he is, playing this foolish games. What was he attempting to immortalize? Himself? Young and perfect, regale and untouched. When hell was reaching its claws for him, when it would rip him apart and oh, the pieces _will_ remain. Forever undecomposed, going nowhere. Martín will stand and watch how much he’ll appreciate his immortality then.

He definitely will, because Martín will not fail.

He followed Andrés into the kitchen, where he was pouring them wine. He had his back to him. Martín drew closer until he was a hair away from him. He must feel him, his body heat, his breath, but he didn’t make a move, he stood frozen, his hand holding the wine tightly as if he didn’t notice Martín. 

Finally he turned but Martín didn’t move so he nearly bumped into him, spilling the wine. But he didn’t, instead he offered him the glass. Martín reached and took it, lingering his fingers on his. 

Andrés reached for his and moved, sipping. Let him keep his composition for as long as he wants, sooner or later he’ll shatter. 

“You’re very talented”

Andrés hummed, a dark expression covering his face.

“They don’t appreciate you now. But they will. One day they’ll understand what they overlooked”

“Is that so?”

“Yes,” Martín said. “It could be. You can make them see. Make them understand what real art is”

He didn't say anything. Martín took it as his cue to go on.

“I can show you, I can make you an offer. And trust me, they’ll never dare forget your name” Andrés put down his glass, turning to him, a perplexed expression on his face. A point between taking Martín’s hand and disregarding him as insane, “if you dare reach out and take it”

Andrés raised his eyebrow, but Martín stood still. He didn’t joke or disregard his words. A moment later, Andrés smiled.


	3. Chapter 3

“A fountain?” Andrés shifted to him with a lopsided smile and a raised eyebrow. His tone held no impatience, only amusement.

Martín said nothing. He simply stared ahead. Andrés mirrored him. Among the sculptures surrounding them, he could easily be one of them. Illuminated by the crisp sunlight, Martín noticed how his eyes were more golden than black. The sharp bones of his face stuck out as he stood straight, facing forward in the image of a man who never had to glance back. 

“A fountain?” Andrés repeated, “That’s your offer?” he snickered.

“This isn’t just any fountain. This isn’t just any water.”

“No? I hope you have some change then,”

Martin drew closer to Andrés, close enough that when he turned to speak, his lips could almost graze his ear. He rested one palm on his shoulder, with the other hand loosely around his arm. Andrés didn’t make a move. But when Martín spoke, he turned ever so slightly, even as he remained staring ahead, pressing the side of his face closer to his lips. Martín could almost taste him. 

“Look ahead. There,” Martín whispered, conducting Andrés’ body. He easily followed his movement. His quick eyes met Martin’s aim.

Martín’s own gaze lingered for a minute on the whitened sepulcher, rising high against the sky.

“Thirty-eight meters right underneath it,” Andrés’ eyes dropped immediately, as if maneuvered by the thread of Martín’s voice. Under the shadow of his lashes, his skin was a porcelain lake. “There’s a chamber. If anyone dares touch its gate” he traced the air with his finger, drawing back to the _Cibeles,_ Andrés’ gaze following his hand. “Our mother goddess here will call forth her water and flood the entire hall,” Martín breathed. “The chamber of Gold”

He drew away, releasing his grip on Andrés, but not lifting his gaze off him. Andrés turned to him, his eyes glinting, a broach of a disbelieving smile on his face. 

“No one had ever dared. No one, Andrés,” he whispered, “This is what I’m offering you.”

\----------------

Andrés stood against the tall window, the sunlight making a silhouette out of him. He sipped from his wine. Martín had spent less than twenty-four hours with the man and he already couldn’t take any more of it; he’s sure if someone was to open him up right now, red-wine would spill from his veins. Has no one notified him of the existence of other liquors?

He took a gulp of his own water and waited for Andrés’ questions to come. Andrés. His ticket out of hell. And if he did this right, his ticket out of life as well. Martín isn’t nervous, he can see the potential in the man opposite him. It has been a long time, but his people-reading skills are still as good as they were back then. 

He’ll agree. Martín knows he will. And it’ll be striking two birds with one stone, taking full advantage of the opportunity that presented itself to him.

“How is it an offer when I’m the one who’ll do the stealing?” Andrés said at last.

Martín chuckled. “I’m offering you my plan.”

“Oh, now you have a plan?” he raised his eyebrow, “enchanting.”

“I do, as a matter of fact,” Martin answered. “I’ve had for.. a very long time.”

“I’m supposed to believe you have a plan to steal ninety tons of gold. From the bank of Spain. Pray, tell me, even if you somehow have this magnificent plan,” he widened his eyes in mockery, gesturing with his hands, “and somehow this plan works, why would I want to do it with you?”

“Where else would you accumulate that much in this time-frame? You’d say no to ninety tons of gold?” Martín asked. Maybe he should have presented it differently. Or maybe he should have waited for more than a few hours, get the man to trust him first. This fucking hasting had doomed him once.

Andrés spurted up. His face reddening in pure anger that Martín didn’t see coming, “And what would I do with-,” he cut himself off, rubbing his face and taking a deep breath, then turned to Martin again. Controlled calmness came over his face instead, as if nothing happened. “You’re wasting my time. Get out,” he ordered calmly.

He made to walk to the door, but Martín moved and blocked his way. “Name something.”

“Huh?”

“Name something. Anything you want,” Andrés narrowed his eyes at him, “A painting, a piece of magnificent jewelry. Whatever. Anything. And I’ll bring it you”

Andrés took a step forward, then leaned his face down to Martín’s. His breath was hot on his face. He pointed a finger to his chest. “Whatever game you’re playing, you’re going to regret it,”

Martín only raised his chin. He said nothing, nor made a move to get out of his way. He stared into Andrés’ eyes, who looked back as intensely.

Martín waited.

Andrés moved away, spinning his head harshly and drawing a heavy breath through his nose.

“Anything you say?” he asked, not turning back to Martín.

“Name it.”

He shifted to him gradually, his fingers between his teeth and his eyes darting. His eyebrows were furrowed slightly as he stared at him. He’s waiting for Martín to sway, to list conditionals. When he didn’t, he licked his lips, nodding to himself, as he looked beyond the open window on his side, into the vibrant city beneath their feet and above their heads.

“In el _Museo del Prado_ ..,” he started and Martín encouraged him to go on. “Goya’s painting; _Saturn devours his son_ ,” he raised his head, a challenging look overtaking his face. In instants, he turned from a squirming recruit to the challenger who puts the test, whose acceptance Martín has to win.

Martín smiled. Genuinely. “Okay”

It might take him a while. This point has eluded him. He forgot that he’s nearly starting from scratch again, he no longer knows who’s in the field. Those he knew and might still find alive wouldn’t like working with a ghost. As for any possible technological advancements, he’s completely blind.

He can cheat, demand Tokyo help him; their end-goal is one. But the option doesn’t feel like an option at all, it has no appeal to Martín.

He’ll do it by himself. 

He bowed his head lightly and turned to the door. If Andres would have added anything, Martín doesn’t know. 

The sharp breeze tingled on his skin as he wandered into the main street.

Martín has been a thief his entire life. He was a constant imposter amongst any people he found himself with, those who trusted him and those who haven’t. It was all the same in the end, every time he had walked away with everything he wanted. Well, every time but one, but this is a mistake he’ll correct. Any cautions they had or didn’t were of no significance when Martín put his mind to it. And yet, he had walked easily among them.

He had been a thief his entire life, but he never felt as much of an exposed imposter as walking in the city's light now. He had never felt so out of place.

All the same, his body remembered what he didn’t. So he gave in to it; let it lead him where he needed to go. He had lived there for long enough back when he was still alive, and the city has changed little. The streets were still mostly the same; the people looked all the same.

He wandered like a robot into the underground spots in the city. He has enough money to acquire what he needs, his tongue still knows their language, he won’t be suspected.

Out of nowhere, Palermo crosses his mind. He wonders who lives in his apartment now, if anyone; what have they done with his belongings, -he thinks of his guitar, wonders where it might be now. He remembers the last night before he left Palermo, a string had broken and he had thought back then that it doesn’t matter, that he would replace it when he comes back, despite knowing that it was very unlikely coming back to Italy. Still, he remembers that thought in his mind, sees it as a shadow standing across time. It didn’t seem strange then. This he knows.

He imagines a faceless landlord, scavenging through his place, finding the guitar and giving it away. Perhaps a faceless child had enough money to buy a hands-down guitar, replacing the strings himself. It was good enough once, valuable. Perhaps not anymore. 

He realizes that he has nothing. It’s a slow realization, he’s willing to admit. But he owns nothing. It’s a strange thing, having nothing at all of the world belong to him, not even the clothes on his skin are his. It’s a strange thing, but its strangeness falls flat. Only realized, not felt.

He had thought often of death during his life, but he never realized it would be as simple as this. Perhaps because that was what his life was, he had enough of the world but it had always been foreign to him, nothing and no one of it ever truly belonged to him, and he had returned the sentiment, never belonging to anything himself.

Like a robot, he bought what he needed; the guns, the tools, the vest. Getting a blueprint of the museum wasn’t difficult either. He found a nearby hideout before the next morning ascended on him.

He fell into planning as easily as he walked in the city. It took him two weeks to figure out the perfect way of knowing the guards; of memorizing the ins and outs. Not a record-break, but his mind is still somewhat rusty from all the dead he had been doing. He was still aware enough that technology must have had advanced as well. Not to something he can’t figure out, but the new alarm systems had to be learned well. Martin isn’t the one to do half-assed work.

On the night of the robbery, he walked easily through the sleeping city. It was calm, almost pleasant, before he heard the light beats falling on his side. He sighed loudly, not even glancing on his side.

“Humans have always amused me. I watched them so close at first, the first generations. They had watched themselves as curiously, I’ll tell you that,”

“I thought I was on a break from Hell, why are you still torturing me with your voice?”

“I didn’t always want to admit it, but they interested me so. They interested all of us, even the ones who fell,” Tokyo went on as if he hadn’t spoken. “Well, some interested me more than others,” she laughed, “you see, we knew what we were, we knew Him, but humans were something else entirely. I was intrigued by this blindness you had over your eyes,” she paused for a long moment, “by the innocence as well.”

He glanced in spite of himself at the change of tone. She was looking far ahead, her eyes clouded, her red lipstick shimmering against the darkness.

“Is there a point of your reminiscing?” he sighed.

She shook her head, not as a ‘no’, he could see that. But to shake something off her. A memory, perhaps. 

“It wasn’t long before I was bored by the repetitiveness of it all, but I’ll tell you-”

“You don’t have to.”, he said plainly.

“before I was bored-”

“Oh my god,” 

“Before I was bored-” she accentuated.

“Well, go ahead, I guess”

“Before it, this same repetitiveness fascinated me. I used to wonder, how could every single generation repeat it all again. Everything. Every single thing. You kept going through the same exact cycles time after another after another. Every single mistake was repeated over the thousands of years. I used to think, how could they not learn, how could these creatures be so stupid,” she paused, then gave an accepting sigh “But in the end, I made my peace with it. After all, one could forgive you this. You live so shortly,” she tsked, “Every single one of you thinks himself discovering the entirety of the world anew,” she laughed, then went on, “one could forgive this, over the generations, over the thousands of years. I understand how you experience time, it’s out of your hands. But you, Martín”

He turned to her at that. The streetlights glowed on her skin. 

“How could you be stupid enough to repeat it all over again?”, she asked, her voice colored with amusement, “How could you be so repetitive, so close-minded, to give the reign again to this single obsession? I’m truly wondering, what do you think will go differently this time?”

He swallowed. 

“It’s none of your business what I do-”

In an instant, she was standing in front of him, the playful grin and tone of her voice gone. 

“I don’t give a single shit what you do, but listen to me well, you’re not here on a rewind time, this isn’t a chance for you to repeat or fix your mistakes. You have one mission here, and if you flake on it in your obsession and selfishness, then the professor won’t hesitate to snatch you back, and you’ll have nothing but an eternity of misery in your hands. Don’t be so stupid to mess it up again”

“I know what I’m doing”

“Do you? The professor didn’t send you here to kill him. This is not what we want.”

“And what has your beloved professor sent me here to do, hm? Isn’t it to make him of my likening, to re-create him in my image?” he tilted his head, “This is what I’m doing then, he should be pleased.”

She fell beside him again. The silence of the city fell all over them. He didn’t realize when he spoke again, neither did he recognize his voice.

“It’s the why, isn’t it? The reason I’ve ended up with you” he breathed, his voice was a little more than a whisper, “it’s _them_ , isn’t it?”

Tokyo was silent for a moment.

“If you’re asking whether their blood is on your hands...” she looked up at the sky, exaggeratedly wondering like a rehearsed tv host. Then snapped her head to him, her face serious once again. “It’s them and it’s everything else”

He turned to the road, trying to release the clinch of his jaws.

The pattering of footsteps on his side disappeared.

\--------------------

Martín didn’t turn on the lights. He enjoys the darkness more. He’s still not used to that much light. It bothers his eyes too much.

After placing the painting by his side on the couch, he relaxed, stretching his back and arms. He wonders whether Andrés has any cigarettes at home. He doesn’t strike Martín as a man who smokes. But he couldn’t bother getting up to look, anyway. 

Andrés isn’t home, but he’ll be soon. He turned on the television; not having to click away many channels before finding one that spoke about the robbery. He chuckled as he watched. He didn’t leave a single trace. That he already knew, he didn’t need confirmation. 

It’s an amusing idea, however. What would they even do if they figured it’s him? He doesn’t exist anymore. A dead man broke into a museum. That would be interesting to hear. That’s if they know he’s dead in the first place. He’s certain they hadn’t figured out who he is, even in his death. He had erased all traces of him before it. It was crucial for the plan back then. 

It’s almost as if he never existed at all. 

If that’s supposed to make him feel anything, he doesn’t know.

He looked up at the sounds of keys turning the door lock.

If it startled Andrés to see him there, he did an outstanding job of hiding it. He turned calmly to close the door, then walked the few steps to him. 

His eyes lingered on the painting first. He slowly kneeled in front of it, his eyes moving all over it. The faint light coming from the television was moonlight on his marble skin. His lips were slightly parted, his breath coming in spurts, as if for seconds, he forgot to go on breathing.

Martín watched him slowly raise one finger to trace it with; his eyes smiling before his lips. 

He looked beautiful.

For a faint moment, Martín felt intruding on a moment. But then Andrés directed his smile at him, and he was even more beautiful.

He doesn’t know how long it was that someone’s beauty tugged at him.

“It’s yours.”

Andrés grinned, rising up.

“I know an art collector or two, you’d get more for it then you’d earn in three lifetimes.”

Andrés shook his head before Martín even finished speaking. 

“I don’t care for the money. Having it is better,” he breathed, eyes it, “is more powerful.”

Martín smiled at that, nodding. He doesn’t need Andrés to explain; he understands exactly what he means.

He knows Andrés will melt the gold for him. No, with him.

He wonders what it would have been like if he had found him the first time, when it was still right. He wonders how it would have ended. How it would have felt.

“What if I say no?” Andrés asked, raising his chin, a challenging look settling in his eyes.

He won’t.

“Then consider it a farewell gift,” Martín answered.

Andrés gazed at him for a moment before a smile spread over his face. “Show me.”

\---------------

“An interconnecting chamber?” Andrés said, leaning on the sketches Martín did.

“Yes.”

“That’s..”

“A lot of money?”

Andrés looked up. “I was going to say brilliant, but that as well.”

Martín chuckled. “The money’s not a problem, it’s easy to acquire.”

“With stealing?”

Martín shrugged. 

“Stealing to get enough money...to steal” he said, only with amusement. If there’s a moral judgment, Martín didn’t hear it.

“Do you want to try?”

“I thought that was a given,” Andrés smirked. “Not tonight though, tonight we celebrate this beauty.” 

He nudged his head towards the painting, then pulled out a bottle of red-wine.

Martín laughed. “Of course.”

Andrés put on some music, then raised his glass against Martín’s. The first sip was light and sweet.

After emptying nearly two bottles and tons of nonsense, Andrés threw himself on the couch by his side. Martín shifted to face him.

“Who the hell are you?”, he said, relaxing his head against his palm, “Where did you come from?”

Despite the alcohol running through his system, and the slight slur in his words, his eyes were focused; gleaming.

“From Hell, cariño.”

Andrés chuckled; his laughter’s dancing in his throat a beautiful sight. 

“Ohh, the great Mephistopheles”

Andrés wouldn’t ask why Martín chose him out of everyone. The question wouldn’t even cross his mind. Already, Martín could tell.

“Would you sell your soul?” Martín humored.

“I’ve been told I don’t have one.”

Martín thinks of the sound of his laughter, the glint in his eyes. “I disagree.”

They spent the night talking and drinking. He knows a lot of what Andrés told him from Sergio. But it’s different hearing it from him. Sergio spoke about statistics, data, numbers. Andrés told him about Julia and Christina, about the island he had his third wedding on, the musician he hired for his second. But like Sergio, he isn’t telling him everything.

And like Sergio, he speaks about himself as if he were someone else.

“Why again, then?”

Andrés raised his eyebrow. 

“Forgive me for intruding, but marriage had failed you four times,” he shifted the failing from Andrés to avoid repelling him away, “Why try again?”

“Just because something isn’t easy to find, doesn’t mean it’s not worth looking for. Quite the contrary, really.”

“What if there’s nothing to find?”

“Is that what you believe?”

“Yes,” he paused. “There’s only the desire of the flesh.”

“There’s desire for everything, Martín”

Martín shook his head. “Not for this. It’s only an illusion behind it all. In the relationships of love, there’s the lover and beloved. The lover lives the relationship with passion, devotion, and romanticism to give his life a pseudo-meaning. The beloved simply enjoys being worshipped. And both are playing a game based on fear.”

“Fear?”

“Fear of dying alone, of being forgotten. A most primitive fear. So, like children, they latch on each other in the darkness of it all. Beloveds think themselves safe and reserved, they sell the suffering of the lover for a chance of being god, powerful and untouched,” he paused, “unforgotten. But see, it’s all the same in the end. A game is only a game.”

“You think all of life is about death. One moment doesn’t define an entire lifetime, Martín.” Andrés got up and rested his glass on the coffee table. “Death is only an opportunity to live life to the fullest. Nothing more, nothing less.” 

Martín looked up at him, his eyes weighed down by the alcohol. He dragged them after Andrés as he walked down the hallway to his bedroom.

When Martín let his body fall on the couch, the warmth where Andrés sat spreads to him. It’s easier to sleep engulfed by it.

\-------------------

The next morning, Martín woke up to the weight of a heavy gaze on him. He squinted against the sunlight once he attempted to open his eyes, raising his arm to cover them. He heard Andrés’ chuckle before he saw him.

“Does it bother you?”

Martín shrugged and made some sort of sound his mind is too foggy to recognize. Next thing he knows, darkness descends around him again. He opened his eyes to Andrés drawing the curtains. Now there was only a ray of sunlight escaping, sparkles of dust danced in it. 

Andrés turned to him with a smirk. It drew a smile out of him. 

He pushed him one of the coffee mugs on the low table.

“For a such skilled thief whom money is so easy to acquire, you sure do enjoy sleeping on my couch,”

“What about taking risks in life?”

“I don’t mind risks. Nuisances, however…,” he pouted slightly.

Despite his words, there was no annoyance in his voice.

“Now you’re just breaking my heart,”

“And you broke into my house-,” Martín made to interrupt, but Andrés tutted him, swaying a finger in front of his eyes. “Not only that, but you also dare ask me to transform my home into a Dracula castle for your likeness,” he took a sip from his coffee, his smile visible behind it.

“I didn’t ask you,”

“You implied it. You can’t ruin my reputation by speaking around about my bad hospitality,”

Martín laughed, shaking his head. Out of nowhere, Andrés’ mug was on the coffee table, and Andrés’ face was inches from his, looming over him like a vulture.

“What happened to your eyes?” he asked, his eyes darting around Martín’s. He raised a finger and treaded lightly around the faded scars. His touch was light as a feather.

Martín swallowed.

“Hm?” Andrés pressed, now looking him in the eyes. Martín turned away, setting up to force him to move.

“Nothing, an incident,”

He only eyed Martín. He didn’t press and moved on.

“C’mon, get up. I want to show you something.”

Martín had no choice but to follow. Andrés drove them to the far end of the city. It was a long ride, but pleasant.

He stopped. Martín turned to him, but he nudged his head by his chin to the other side.

On the other side of the road were different shops, their signs dim in the morning, but Martín quickly understood where Andrés’ interest laid.

“What do you think?”

“Well, let’s get in and take a look,” Martín could already tell it was a superb choice, the Jeweler’s was obviously one of the fanciest in the city. Three stories tall, standing against everything else in the already elite neighbourhood.

Andrés entered first, walking as if he owned the place, head held high. Martín followed, his eyes started working on the cameras first. He walked leisurely as well, taking a glance under the glass every now and then. 

He could hear Andrés speaking with the seller, who welcomed him with a ‘Mr. Fonollosa’. Martín resisted the urge to turn and watch them, but he roamed near enough to still catch their words. 

“She loved it. In fact, I’ve brought my dear friend here as well,” Martín looked up at that, and flashed a contained smile to the man, who nodded, then turned his face again.

“His fiancee-to-be is much pickier, however,” Andrés added. 

The man said something about some special collections upstairs. Martín and Andrés followed him. Behind him, Martin threw him a smirk. Martín resisted the urge to laugh.

The man spoke with one of the workers and the boy went to the far end of the room immediately. Martin memorized the security cameras, then turned his gaze to Andrés. There’s no way he could easily afford to shop here regularly. He wonders how much of his income he saves just for this; his suits and jewelry for his women, just to stand in front of them like this.

Martín surveyed the collection, tutting every now and then. Andrés went on adding details about his imaginary girlfriend, Martín playing along with him about this and that time he brought her something that resembled this and that and how she threw it in his face. The man shook his head, tutting in feigned sympathy with Martín.

“Well, women..you know them,” Martín said at last, shaking his head with an exasperated sigh, as if it were really Martín who’s being tortured and not the poor man.

“We’ll get new collections in two weeks. On Monday the 27th, it’s nothing like you’ve seen before,” he turned to Andrés with a raised chin, clicking on the supposed confidence of tastes they share, “Truly, I’m sure you’ll find something worthy of the senorita then, Mr. Berrote,”

Martín nodded. Then Andrés affirmed that they’ll definitely be coming to check them.

Andrés grinned at him on their way out.

“Tuesday?”, Andrés raised his eyebrow as he walked to the car.

“Why the hell not?” Martín answered.

On their way back to the apartment, as they stopped at the crossroads, Andrés slid one hand in his coat. The smirk drew Martín’s attention.

He took out his hand with his grin growing wider. In it was a silver watch.

Martín raised his eyebrow, not attempting to suppress the laughter.

“It’s yours,” Andrés repeated his earlier phrase. 

‘I could take what I want myself’ was on the tip of his tongue. He only smiled at him.

“Give me your wrist.”

‘I could put it on myself’ was on the tip of his tongue. He only stretched his arm to him.

He was silent as Andrés fasted it around his wrist, his slim fingers gentle and slow. Martín couldn’t take his eyes off them.

“I hope it’s not a farewell gift,” he said, to break the tension growing around them.

Andrés had started driving again. He threw him a grin. “Quite the opposite.”

Martín said nothing.

After they drove by the hideout to bring the remaining of his stuff, they stopped to have lunch at an outdoor cafe. Martín watched the cars go by on the other side.

“That wasn’t the first time you stole,” Martín turned to him. He’s not sure whether Andrés was already speaking and he cut him off. If he had, Andrés didn’t seem to mind.

“I’ve never done it professionally,” Andrés answered, before taking a bite.

“So?”

He took his sweet time chewing, obviously enjoying making Martín wait for the answer.

“A child’s game,” there was a smile on his face, but his tone was tainted with bitterness.

Martín nodded. He doesn’t need to press, he can figure the rest of the story himself, -granted, the first mansion Martín ever robbed was his parents, and Andrés obviously didn’t want to talk about it. For some reason, he didn’t want to disturb him with memories he’d rather forget.

\--------------

Andrés stretched on the armchair, crossing his legs on the coffee table.

He pushed a gun to him. Andrés took it in his hands and turned it around as he inspected it.

“You know how to shoot?”

“Of course,”

“Alright, just don’t use it unless you really have to,” he said, Andrés raised his eyes to him, then he remembered that this is the opposite of what he should be doing, “or do! Whatever you want,” he shrugged.

Andrés laughed, putting it back.

“I could rent another place in Madrid, that’s what I intended to do anyway, but I think it’s going to be more practical with me here. You know with the planning and all,” 

Andrés hummed, his arms draped on the armrests, and head tilted back in a smirk. He looked at him the way parents listen to the obvious lies of their children for amusement. Martín wants to throw the mug in his face.

“Of course, of course,” he said, nodding. “You’re like a stray cat who found a nice spot and never leaves,”

“It’s not nice at all, your couch might as well be made out of rocks ,”

“Oh, would you like I leave you my bedroom? I could sleep on the roof if that would make you comfortable,” 

Martín rolled his eyes. He rested his hands on the backrest as he loomed over him. “I don’t see why we can’t share,” he sneered, leaning down on him. “Didn’t mommy and daddy teach you to share, Andrés?” he added lowly.

Andrés stared up at him for a moment, but when Martín made no move to shift away, his gaze lowering to his lips, Andrés gulped visibly and got up from the couch, forcing Martín to back.

Martín chuckled. Let him keep his composition for as long as he wants, sooner or later he’ll shatter.

They talked about the plan for a while, before Andrés left Martín with the technicalities of it all, and disappeared somewhere in his apartment.

Hours later, Martín sought him out. He found him in a room at the end of the hallway, an area Martín didn’t tread as he thought there was nothing besides Andrés’ bedroom back there. 

The door was slightly ajar, Andrés sat on a stool in front of his canvas, his back to him. It was a pretty small room, could have been an extra bathroom that Andrés redecorated, but it was filled with paintings as well, much messier than outside, with dry paint on the small table on Andrés side, and even on the white sheet half-covering an armchair across him. There was a small stained- glass window above all of this. It made the room look like a miniature chapel. 

A thought Andrés must have had as there was no light in the room except the sunlight filtered through the window and a few candles scattered around. Setting straight, high on his stool, and his back to him, he resembled a god at the top of his altar.

Martín tilted his head to get a look at what he’s painting. Curiously, he was moving both hands in simultaneous movement. It took Martín long minutes to realize that they weren’t forming the same painting, that the almost-finished face emerging from the canvas wasn’t one, but two; merged and blurred together in the middle. On the right side, it was half of Andrés’ face. The one on the left was much more difficult to figure out. Martín tried to block Andrés’ half, closing his right eye. It took a long staring moment to realize it’s a feminine face; the features were very close to Andrés’, but not identical. Once he saw it, the painting became much clearer. He could see both sides at the same time and see where they merged.

His breath must have come abruptly, because Andrés turned to him. Martín didn’t make a move, nor did he shift away from the eye contact. Andrés only stared at him. He couldn’t decipher the look on his face.

“Do you need anything?” his voice was devoid of anger, but it was devoid of everything else as well.

“No,” he still lingered, having no idea why.

Andrés stared at him. “Well?”

Martín went away.

A while later, he went out to a bookstore he had glanced nearby to get a few books. When he came back, Andrés was leaning on the coffee tables, reading his notes.

“You can knock, you know?”

“I thought you were still painting,”

He hummed. “Very considerate of you,”

Martín laughed and sat opposite him.

Martín had always planned alone. All of his life. Any job he did, he planned for it himself. He’d shut himself in his room, with nothing but his alcohol and plans, and would work away for weeks. All the times he had worked with others, he’d only recruit them to do specific tasks after he finished the work himself. He’d worked by himself his entire life. And he used to love it this way, he loved it as much as the stealing itself. Every single time, he’d come out having understood his art more, and having alienated everyone else more.

He used to love it this way, but he can’t say that sharing it with Andrés isn’t pleasant. He didn’t intrude on his space like others have tried before, rather he stretched it enough to fit him. And it fit him alright. Martín had always only relied on his mind, but Andrés ideas are as quick, rushing in where Martín’s are haltened. His words sometimes push themselves in Martín’s sentences, fitting them as if it were one mind producing the thought. When Martin is working on the technical sides by himself, Andrés proves himself a good ear, sometimes even letting Martín go on irrelevantly; on interesting equations or marvelous inventions. He would listen patiently, never rushing Martín, or stopping him, he’d ask when something is too complicated and would let Martín go on for as long as he wanted. He’d even create more connections across everything, they’d start talking about Galileo and end at Caravaggio. Sometimes he only let Martín work in peace, but would stay and paint in the same room. Martín enjoys his humming then, the faint sound of his brush, his remarks now and then. Sometimes, he’d glance up and Andrés’ eyes meet his, a smile trans-passing between them.

He more than enjoyed them. He catches himself seeking him out if he’s somewhere else, trying to draw him back to him. Or waiting impatiently if he’s not home. 

He avoided entreating on him in his painting chapel. He’d usually stand far enough and call out to him. But the night before the robbery he found the door left completely open, and when Martín’s intentionally heavy-footsteps drew closer to Andrés, he only turned with a smile. Martín walked inside the room for the first time. It wasn’t as small as he thought it was, but it was still clammy. 

Against the wall, on Andrés’ left side, laid a guitar.

“It’s Tatiana’s, when her creative power fails, she re-charges by spending time with other instruments,” Andrés said, not looking up from the painting he’s working on.

Martín nodded. It resembled Martin’s old guitar. This one was old, wearing out, it’s brownness fading. His must be as well, it hit him. It must be quite old now.

He felt Andrés’ eyes on him, right as he heard him ask. “Do you play?”

Martín breathed, his gaze still lingering on it. “Not in a very long time,”

“Go ahead, then,” Andrés was looking at him expectantly, his brush stopped mid-motion.

Ah, why the hell not

He pulled the guitar, then sat on the armchair opposite Andrés. He situated it on his lap. He’s not sure how much he remembers or doesn’t remember.

He doesn’t remember how it used to feel like, nor what it is supposed to feel like. He felt like how he imagined La Llorona would feel with the corpses of children in her arms, with the inability to tell if they are hers.

Martín caressed it before running his fingers between the strings. Muscle memory carried from where he couldn’t lead. A familiar song from back home came to him. The words fell off his lips easily, but they tasted like nothing on his tongue.

 _Ni soy de aquí, ni soy de allá_.

Andrés leaned back, shifting his body more towards Martin. He let go of his brush and just looked into him.

It came too easily to him. He smiled at that. Heaven will always reject Martín, but music still doesn’t deny him its divinity. He smiled at Andrés, and he ached when Andrés returned it, not lifting his eyes off him for a second, the lyrics losing themselves between them.

Martín felt as if Andrés pulled the words out from him by a thread, only by gazing at him like that, and with it undoing the whole seam of his being.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That was slightly later than I thought it would be. But here we go, I hope you enjoy it!

Martín had thrown the bait, and Andrés bit into it; hard. What a starving fish he must have been. He told him about the Bank Heist as they did more robberies. Andrés was _eager,_ always coming back with more questions. Sometimes shaming Martín by bringing up things that hadn’t crossed his mind, or did when it was too late. 

They robbed the jewelry, and numerous others. And Andrés didn’t tread carefully. He treaded like a man who _believed_ in his right to take. They robbed the jewelry, and numerous others. And Andrés was a shark; swallowed everything in his way. 

But it didn’t satisfy him, whatever hole this man had at his core, wasn’t filled easily. Andrés had more glory and power than he could have ever wished for, but he was insatiable. 

Watching him, Martín has the sense that he’s watching his own memories of himself. The greed, the hunger, the fall. The desire for more. Always more.

But it’s also different. 

All through his life Martin had to get. And the more he took into his mouth, the emptier he felt, the more his hunger became unbearable. He was always a man dying of thirst amidst sea water. 

He wonders whether this is the divinity he can’t touch, the heaven that rejects him. The hunger erased. No, not erased, satisfied. 

Andrés was something else. Or so he had thought at the moment.

Martín had sauntered to his side. Walking past the security guards lying unconscious on the cold ceramic. They had more than enough time to take everything they wanted.

“What do you want?” Martín had asked him, glancing through the glass windows at the buildings across the street, rainbows reflecting upon them, disturbing the darkness.

“Nothing,” Andrés said simply, eyes fixed on the painting across him.

Martin raised an eyebrow. “You’ve brought us here and you want nothing?”

Andrés didn’t answer.

“A private tour is all you wanted, really?”

“Yes,” he said, nonchalantly.

Martín laughed. “You could have all of them home to ponder at whenever you want.”

“I want to ponder now,” he said, then turned to him with a stubborn smirk. “You should learn to relax a little.”

“Alright, alright.” Martín raised his hands in defeat. But he hadn’t been bothered, not really. 

“Don’t you see?” Andrés said, his eyes glinting in the dark, “We don’t need to take anything. The entire place is already ours, everything is ours.”

“For tonight, at least.”

“For tonight,” Andrés nodded. 

“Show me, then,” Martín grinned at him, “A private tour, you said.”

Andrés had smiled back at him and tilted his head before walking further. Martín had followed him, and he had remained silent as Andrés spoke, weaving stories, for they were stories. Everything was mythologized to Andrés- history, facts; he weaved everything as if the world itself was of his own creation. A god who descended to earth to walk amidst his own work.

And yet it was still there, this distance between Andrés and everything else. Perhaps a homeless god he was, one who had forgotten where he came from, and rejected by what he had created for himself. 

All the same, Martín had felt it burning in his body, this indecipherable need.

All throughout his life, he had been mad with greed. A child who had been to the beach for the first time, and mindlessly pulled every shell into his pockets.

But the only thing he had painfully wanted to steal then was this night. 

There was something about it, about Andrés standing amidst the works of art, the shadows dancing with his features, about the empty vastness of the room save for them, about the faint sound of music reaching them, and the ringing of Andrés’ voice, that made Martín yearn to snatch it out of the hands of time; lock it somewhere untouchable, unfound. To save it from himself, even. 

And Andrés had turned to him, a playful smirk dancing on his face. He reached out a hand, and instinctively -it seemed to him then, Martín took it. And had let Andrés drew him closer, one steady arm on his waist. He had laughed for a moment, but it slowly faded away, as he lost himself to the rhythm, resting his head against Andrés’ shoulder. 

All there was in that moment was Andrés’ heart drumming under Martín, the music that filled the streets, the colors through the glass windows, that whirled and smudged in the arms of one another, the steady arm engulfing him. Martín had dared close his eyes then, and he breathed. For moments, he was strangely at peace. There was something in him that had finally silenced. Something that he had no awareness made a noise in the first place. 

It was this night that Andrés had asked him to be his best-man. It surprised him. In all honesty, he’d forgotten all about his woman, had forgotten that Andrés was ever in love with anything else. Anything other than the Gold. 

The way he latched onto it was painfully familiar. Once, he might have believed it, this love. Not anymore. 

The Gold grew more and more in his mind. He acted as if it were something he had been looking for all his life. Oh, he enjoyed the sudden wealth, the rush and adrenaline, the real luxury that presented itself to him. The power as well. All sorts of it. Martín saw it in the smile he sent Martín over the shoulder of men and women tied beneath his feet, his gun hovering over them in amusement. He saw it in the glint of his eyes upon landing on anything and knowing that he could snatch it away. And Martín always gave it to him, whatever he desired.

He desired the Gold. This was clear. And Martín promised it. The Gold wasn’t coming by itself, no. Underneath everything was what Martín had truly offered him. His downfall. A door into a whole other layer of reality, the deepest, rawest. A chance to shed off his skin. To be completely who he is. To revel in the absolute, unchallengeable power, desire, greed, pride. Beyond the limits of society. Beyond the rules for humanity. What a fool he was to indulge in it.

Martín felt as if he were watching a caricature of his past self. What a fool.

And because Martín was his fatal destiny, Andrés fell for the Gold, just like he had; believing it could grant him all of this. Believing the mountain of Gold would be the only tower big enough for him to finally rise above any and everyone else.

Martín knew what obsession looked like. And right then, it incarnated itself in Andrés. And what a better road to hell than obsession? None. 

_‘The horror, the horror’_ Kurtz had screamed.

Andrés will meet it himself soon enough.

Even so, he intrigued Martín. In his awareness, perhaps. This Martín had lacked. Andrés reveled in everything, but there was a hint of clarity he had. As if he knew exactly what Martín was doing. As if he knew more than Martín. He half-expects him to turn to him once and wink, tell him ‘show all your cards. I already know the game.’

As if he knew the lie behind _everything_. The robberies, the marriages, the luxuries, the art. As if he knew what Martín offered him was only dust and ashes. There was a crack on his surface, one Martín had thought he could peer through.

Because there is something Martín can’t bring him. He’d gloated to him, stood amidst all the luxuries the world has to offer, and yet, it stood like a sore thumb to him, that he doesn’t know what he could actually give him. Not even Andrés was fooled. 

It eludes him what it could be, whirls out of his fist like smoke every time Martín thinks he’s got it.

He’d joked once, where Andrés was standing still, masked, in a room full of terrified hostages, seemingly only looking at them. Martín had approached him, and nudging him lightly had said, “Go ahead, take whatever you want. You’ll be denied nothing.”

Andrés only chuckled lowly, and with a faraway voice had only answered: ‘Is that so?’

Martín had been a little offended, hadn’t he proven himself already? 

‘Yes, I’ll give it to you.’

‘You overestimate your skills, Martín,’ he had said, something dark in his tone. Martín had wanted to rip the mask off his face then, to see him, so that he might understand what it was this man could possibly want, what he himself might not even realize. 

But he had only walked away from Martín, strode across the room and filled the bag. It might as well have been dirt he pulled in his hands.

He thinks he recognizes it now. As he watches him whirl his bride in his arms. An empty grin on his face. A hole, matching Martín’s. He’s as hollow at the core as Martín is.

It disgusted Martín, and yet he couldn’t look away, the power only certain repulsive things have. 

He brought his mind back to the moment. It was a strange wedding. Empty. Andrés had said he was tired of extravagant weddings, that he wanted a small family one this time, -as if changing the wedding would result in a different marriage than the ones before it. But as Martín sat there, he couldn’t point out any family. The two of them could get married by themselves in a courthouse and it would be the same. The only people attending were too distant, too formal to be either of their families.

He could tell that no one in the venue truly cared for Andrés. They smiled, clapped and congratulated, as part of the game it was, -that they were too idiotic to even realize. But they don’t love nor care for him, it was apparent to him. And the thought, perplexedly, made him want to rip their eyes off their faces. 

He took a sip from his champagne, watched them dance under the sunlight. He couldn’t take his eyes off them if he wanted, off _him._ Rays of sunlight refracting on Ivory skin and auburn hair. And Martín thinks of when he was the one in his arms. Does she feel it too? What he felt against his chest, possessing his heartbeats.

Martín downs his champagne and takes off to the back room. It’s much darker there, better.

He leaned against the icy wall and let the gloom that was pulling at him all day finally take over him. It’s not worth resisting. Surrendering to it is good, peaceful. Its dullness bothers him, let it be sharp, let it be painful, whatever it is, let it draw fresh blood. He’s tired of dullness, he’s exhausted. 

And as if the blade was waiting for his permission, it cuts right through him. Rips his intestines, messy and painful. The blade is the music muffled and trapped in the walls, the music Andrés is dancing to with his wife.

And if he had opened the door to a rotten house, swarms of images filled his vision. The rotten air filled his throat and lungs as if he were falling in it. Everything was suddenly both glass clear and obscure. Is it his decaying body he’s smelling? Let it be. Those responsible will pay the price alright. And as if he hadn’t been thinking of it the past months, as if he hadn’t known it for months, it stands clear in front of his eyes. 

He’ll let Andrés have the gold if he wants, it will be Martín’s payment for his soul, and for _theirs_. The ones he was responsible for. All of them, all of them. When they all burn and bleed, and the white sepulcher drowns in red ashes, and the gold is covered with silky red, Martín will be free.

What was wrong with him? Filling his mind with illusions. He doesn’t care for this man. He doesn’t care for anyone. There’s the blood, and there’s the peace after. There should be nothing else. There _is_ nothing else.

There shouldn’t be.

“We send you to seduce him, and you end up being his best man,” a dreadful chuckle draws him out of his thoughts. He closes his eyes for a moment, inhaling, before he turns to her.

“I knew you’d fail, I told the professor so, but I have to admit, you’re impressing even me by how good you are at it. Is this a natural skill or did you study it?” Tokyo added. Despite her playful tone, she was inspecting him seriously with her eyes, her brows slightly burrowed and her red lips carrying a small frown. The champagne glass in her hand hovering by her mouth as she stared at him. He wonders what she sees.

“Don’t demons usually have some poor rotten souls to eat?” Martín said, and even his voice carried somberness that didn’t match the words. And just like that, the playful road was a closed street, and Tokyo leaned by his side.

“Fallen angels,” she said, and Martin let out a huff, “You’re running out of time, Martín,” she added, almost softly.

“Don’t tell me he’s not turning into something you dislike,” Martín answered absentmindedly, staring at the wedding gifts sacked in front of him. 

“You have no idea how any of this works, do you?” she asked, and immediately tilted her head to him, “You do know though,” then she spoke lowly, slowly: “What game do you think you’re playing here?”

“Your and your professor’s game,”

“No, no, I watched you, Martín.”

He turned to her. “Then you know what I’m doing. What does it matter that he’s getting married? Don’t tell me you have no married men in Hell,” he spat.

She laughed.

“It doesn’t matter,” he affirmed, taming the anger rising in him, that Martín recognized isn’t aimed at her, “I got him. You know I have,” the words brimmed with bitterness in his mouth, he’s got him alright, as far as it concerned the demons.

“It’s not a terrible plan, but, as I’ve said-”

“I can have more time. You can get it for me,”

“Why would I do that?”

“Because you know it’s going to work. We all have the same goal here.”

“Do we? You’re doing this for yourself, above all else,” she snickered after a moment, “it was this selfishness that brought you to us in the first place,”

Martín barked a laugh. “And? It’s not like there’s a chance for redemption now. And if there is, I don’t want it,” before she interrupted Martín went on, “You misunderstand me, Tokyo. It’s not the same plan anymore.”

“Oh, this is more than clear.”

“So you know, you know this will do the job perfectly. I’ll be handing him to you on a silver plate.”

She stopped, pondering. “It’s not a terrible plan,” she repeated, “spilled blood is unbeatable,”

Martín laughed bitterly. 

“This has risks beyond your understanding, though,” she said, in a lighter tone. But brimming with a certain excitement, that made Martín want to laugh. At least she was a demon who acted like a demon. 

“You have no idea the risks we’re taking to have you here in the first place. To interfere with one man was already a dangerous territory, but this-” she gestured wildly, widening her eyes exaggeratedly.

“Nothing beyond your skills, though,” Martín said, and she laughed in response. Then nodded and raised her glass to him. Martin grabbed one as well, and leaned back against the wall.

“Martín.”

He whirled his head to the source of his name, to find Andrés walking towards him, “What are you doing here?” he asked Martín, stretching his neck to look behind him. Martín turned and Tokyo was already gone.

“Just a moment of quiet.”

Andrés walked slowly to him, the sunlight at the doorway dispatching as he walked towards the darkness around Martín.

He stared at him, his lips slightly parted. “Martín,” he rasped, then as if changing the words at the last second he swallowed, shaking his head lightly. “Come outside,” he said at last, his eyes soft with something akin to sadness. What does he have to be sad about today, the entire world at his fingertips?

“Just a moment.”

Andrés nodded, but didn’t move, hovering between the sunlit doorway and Martín like a mirage.

“Go ahead,” Martín said, “enjoy your wedding. I’ll be right after you.”

Andrés remained gazing at him, and the longer he stood there, the more Martín wanted to dissolve. To turn into slick dirt and wash down the sewers. The more he wanted to reach out to him, to do _something_. Whatever it was that stuck in his throat and he didn’t know how to get rid of. In an attempt to fight it, he smiled at Andrés, and it weighed on his face, as if split open with a knife. Without another word or gesture, Andrés turned and walked away. 

He stood still, looking at him, long after he had disappeared. Like an infant who did not know what he wanted, crying irrationally, he realized he had wanted him to stay with him there, away from all of them, just for one more moment. As if it means anything. 

He turned and walked further in the room, rubbing his face. He half-expected Tokyo to still be there, but when he opened his eyes, he was met with a stack of gifts.

As promised, he walked out to drink and dance in the skin of an alive man.

Martín left that night, after congratulating the couple again. He had rented a car, and drove aimlessly, only recognizing his destination when he was half-way there. 

——————-

A futile long ride, it turns out, as he stands in front of the building he used to live in. What did he think he’d find here, he doesn’t know. He sighed and walked away. He walked the streets of Palermo one last time. For old time’s sake.

He gave Andrés two weeks before playing some honest tricks, pulling Tatiana away on another brief tour. Then found his way back to him, in Madrid again, just as he expected. 

And as if Andrés had expected him as well, he didn’t show a hint of surprise. Even when he pressed a gun to Martin’s temple, trapping him between the wall and his body, his face hovering above his and an indecipherable look overcoming his face.

“I could kill you,” he rasped out. 

“You could,” Martín affirmed, steadily.

He grinned then. And just like the first time, it transformed his face. Then slowly, he tilted his head, and dragged the gun down Martín’s face, the coldness striking his warm face. For a moment, he was extremely aware of his own breathing, of his chest heaving up and down, the rhythmic beating of his heart, of Andrés’ nearness. For a moment, the first time in god-knows how long, he felt _real,_ as if the air tore itself apart to make room for him, as he if moved, he would be able to see the remaining phantom of his body.

Andrés drew even closer. His palm rested on the wall behind Martín, the gun moving across his face, down the bridge of his nose, Andrés’ gaze following it as it went lower, pulling his lower lip with it. And near his ear, Andrés spoke.

“Are you brave or a fool?”

“Neither,” Martín breathed.

“What are you, then?” The question carried everything between them; in itself, meaningless. But there was Andrés’ furrowed brows, a desperate dark glint in his eyes, in the manner of a man trying to catch air in his fist, who didn’t understand why he couldn’t. Air, fleeting, shapeless, forever changing.

“Whatever you want me to be.” 

And isn’t it the right thing to say? The truthful too? After all, He is why Martín is here. But no, it was truthful on a whole other level. A deeper thing within Martín that he couldn’t decipher.

Andrés’ face split with a smile.

“You’re late,” he said, pulling back. And if a clone of him snatched and replaced him in a fraction of a second, his features drew on themselves, and a smudge of harshness colored his next words, “You’re always too late.”

“Well, I’m here now,” Martín answered. 

“You are,” Andrés nodded solemnly, “I’d thought you disappeared.”

“Where to?” Martín asked, leaning on the wall. 

Andrés shrugged, huffing up air. “Wherever it was you appeared from.” 

———————

He settled with him again, and for a while, dove head-first into planning again. There was something freeing in creating a plan that was designed to fail. Designed to destroy and nothing else.

Andrés seemed to know it as well. Martín had made it clear what they would need to do. But it wasn’t always planning. Some nights they would simply walk together through the city. Martín was lucky the man he was assigned already lived in a past century. Every movie he put on, every play they attended together, every piece of music he played were things that were considered old even in Martín’s life-time.

He wasn’t out of place in Andrés’ home. Wasn’t out of time with him. Sometimes it slipped off his mind what he was doing there. He would lose focus, and for moments forget that this isn’t his life. It was strange. The life he led was almost identical to the one he was pulling Andrés in. And yet, it paled in comparison. Andrés’ pushed the old one out of his memories, as if all of his life hadn’t truly happened. As if it only started with Andrés. 

And would surely, hopefully, end with him. One way or another.

Andrés himself didn’t seem bothered by the absence of his wife, nor by any change Martín brought. Martín had thought it fucking natural at first. Who would be bothered by those changes? 

But he grew to think it was something other than what Martín brought with him. Thought or hoped or feared. They all seemed the same thing to him, when it appeared to him as if a place was made for Martín in Andrés’ life. His heart fluttered like a silly little thing then, surprising him with the eagerness to believe it.

It was those moments. Those slight events. 

Once Andrés had brought up an art gallery, and Martín said he’ll scheme something up. But then Andrés laughed, shaking his head. 

“No work required of you this time, only your presence,” he had said, and Martín raised his eyebrow. “It’s showing my own art.”

“Of course,” Martín had grinned. 

And he couldn’t wipe that same stupid grin off his face all evening as he watched him talk about his work, or when Andrés raised his eyes from the woman he was chatting with to smile at Martín. Or when they ripped apart every single piece that wasn’t Andrés’. Feeding on Andrés’ laughter at all his remarks about the work and their artists. 

Or when they walked home that night, light in the night’s air. Their throats hurting from all the talking and laughter, their faces hot from all the wine and champagne. Martín could live in this night, he realized then. 

There were other times. When Tatiana took a break and came to spend a few nights in Madrid.

And Andrés didn’t turn Martín away then. Martín had stopped his earlier advances. There were other ways to corrupt, he had thought. And Andrés made none of his own, not really. But he didn’t turn Martín away. He still talked to him over breakfast, still spent the afternoons by his side, still laughed with him. 

And at night, when Martín couldn’t sleep, straining to hear them only to turn away from the sound if any came, when a painful ache echoed in his heart, he remembered the plan, remembered Sergio. He remembered them only to discover how unwilling he is to take anything from Andrés. Not even her. 

He couldn’t pretend that he wasn’t happier, however, when she wasn’t there. When he had Andrés to himself. 

One night Martín had been in the painting chapel, planning in the tiny space, when he heard a loud thud coming from Andrés’ room. He put the notebook aside and got up, calling Andrés name as he walked towards the door. When he got no answer, he tentatively opened the door. To find no one inside.

“Andrés!” he called again, staring at the closed bathroom door.

“Andrés, are you alright?”

“Yes.”

“What happened? Did you fall?”

No answer. 

“Andrés!”

“I’m fine.”

The finality in his voice unsettled Martín. It was too loud to be a bottle falling, and his voice was too serious for it to be a funny slip.

“Andrés,”

“Fuck, would you leave?” he shouted.

Martín sighed and walked out, closing the door behind him. Andrés didn’t come out for the rest of the night, and Martín couldn’t sleep, shifting back and forth on the small couch. At some point he gave up and got up. It was an uncomfortable place during the dead of the night, without Andrés’ lively presence. He stood in the dimly lit kitchen, taking gulps from a glass of water, staring out of the small kitchen window. It was nothing but a confined square of darkness. He put the glass down and walked further down the hallway to Andrés’ bedroom.

Slowly, he opened the door, surprisingly finding it unlocked. He pushed it open carefully, only enough for him to pass. 

Andrés was laying still on his back, illuminated only by a narrow gleam of moonlight. The shadows of the curtains’ slight movement whirling on his face. He drew closer, as slowly as he could muster. Not daring to breathe. 

His ivory face laid still, facing upwards, without a flicker, without the smallest of movements, like a corpse. Martín’s fingers itched by his side, and seemingly without a conscious decision, he found them hovering over his face. He drew a breath, and was shocked, perhaps, that his fingers weren’t met with cold stone. There was only soft, warm skin under his touch. But despite this, as he stood there, tracing his face with his fingertips, he felt like a man standing in mourning.

But what right do the dead have to mourn the living? 

Martín couldn’t take his eyes off him. The pulling at his heart got more and more painful as he let his eyes take their share of him. He was nothing at all like his awoke self. It was a common thing to hear and read everywhere that sleep brings peacefulness foreign to the waking world; peacefulness and comfort, pain being shamed into pausing for the night.

Andrés proved the opposite. With the lack of his bright smile and glinting eyes, hands itching with excitement and light movement in a world that belongs to him, he looked nothing but a burdened man. Martín noticed how deep the lines on his face are, how natural his frown is, how uneasy the twitch in his lips. How a permanent image of pain took over.

A surprising need to… do something took over his blood. To eat whatever it is that burdened him away, to leave him light and free and take it with him to hell. Burn it there in hellfire. Of locking it in his own body, if he must. Anything to keep it away from this man. This man he grew to care for more than he ever believed he was capable of.

He took one last glance at him, before turning away and walking out of the room. No sleep grabbed him this night, as he stared at the ceiling, and it seemed to him then, that Andrés’ features mixed with the shapes made of air just beyond his sight, up there. And when he closed his eyes, it was Andrés’ features mixed with the darkness.

Andrés spent a few days withdrawn. As Martín came to get used to. The way he’d sometimes close himself away, spend the entire day in his bedroom. Or when he’d spend it all outside, escaping Martín’s questions to where he has been, and going to his bedroom right away. It crossed Martín’s mind more than once to follow him. But at the end he’d decided against it. Whatever Andrés was hiding for himself, he had the right to. Even if Martín wished he could carry whatever it was that haunted him in his stead. 

So when he came out one evening, and with a feverish smile spreading over a pale face, told Martín they must steal a necklace from a nearby jewelry right away, this same night, Martín couldn’t say no.

He should have, he realized. It wasn’t the first robbery they came up with on the spot. They have made them work before. But this time, there was something wrong from the start. There was something wrong in Andrés’ erratic moves, the way his eyes were frantic; different from his normal control.

He supposed he should be pleased at Andrés’ letting go, completely. But he found himself trying to save the day. But for the first time in his life, Martín froze. For when the man held his gun to him, and he realized the intention to aim in his eyes, what Martín saw wasn’t his own body falling, no. Not even Andrés’. 

The images that clouded his eyes from the present moment were from long ago, a sequence of bodies falling, screams from all around them. When he realized he couldn’t save them, he couldn’t protect them. How they were coming all at once, from various rooms and he was in the middle. He couldn’t even choose. He was trapped like a rat. He was forced to hear it all. Was there really so much blood? Had he imagined it running under the doors, coming to him, chasing him, haunting him, looking at him and mocking him, screaming ‘here you go, isn’t that what you wanted! _isn’t it!_ ‘ 

One image stood against everything, Andrés. No, no. Andrés wasn’t a memory. Andrés wasn’t with him then. Andrés was here. He was here, and he was aiming to kill.

“No!” he screamed at him, going at him with the full force of his body. The movement alerted the man, who in an instant took a shot at Martín. The bullet entered his body, and a strong huff of air exited it. Hotness spilled over him. In the dark, he could see Andrés staring at him, panic filling his eyes. Martín fired at the man’s leg and let Andrés drag him outside to the car, half-carrying him as he ran.

He couldn’t take his eyes off the blood. It was fresh. Fresh blood. He had imagined it would be rotten and clouted and dark. But it wasn’t. It wasn’t.

“Martín, Martín!”

He raised his eyes to Andrés holding a cloth to his side, the other hand don the wheel. Sirens filled the air around them.

Martín laughed. He couldn’t stop laughing. The streetlights on the road were too bright, too colorful, merging in each other, and the red around him was too red. Beautiful. All of it. Andrés squinted his eyes. 

“Hold this against you until we get to there,” he said, his breaths broken, eyes darting back and forth between him and the road.

Martín did as asked, relaxing against the seat. Deliriously aware of how fast Andrés was driving, the lights outside whirled and danced, pulling Martín with them. Beautiful, luminous. He felt a hand squeezing his and turned to Andrés, who only smiled at him. If Martín died right now, it’ll be alright. What a beautiful last thing to see. If only it had been. Even the ache it pushed in his chest was more than welcome.

The decision he made for Andrés didn’t weigh on him, not at all. He laughed, and Andrés turned to him with narrowed eyes, but he only shook his head. No, it didn’t. He was free, light. He might as well be carried by the air. He wasn’t going to hand Andrés to them. What does the gold matter for? It doesn’t. It might have once. But not now. The blood doesn’t matter. Those who’re gone are gone, and those still here are worth nothing, let alone Andrés. 

But Andrés is alive. He’s alive and brilliant and beautiful, and he’s worth more than the whole world combined. 

This was the last thought that crossed his mind before he gave in to the peaceful darkness pulling him.

——————

Martín sprung back to consciousness to find his torso propped up under Andrés hand, his other hand wrapping the gauze around him.

“You bled a lot,” he muttered, eyes focused on the task.

“It’s fine,” he said, “not the first time,” he added, with a chuckle, but Andrés frown didn’t dispatch. 

“I could have killed him, and we would have avoided all of that,” Andrés said after a moment of silence.

“There was no need.”

“Wasn’t there?” Andrés raised his eyebrow, his fingers treading Martín’s sweaty hair, the other pulling the cover over him. “Him dead better than you hurt.”

Martín wants to laugh, but Andrés and he remain still. The only movement is Martín trying to prop himself up on his elbow, slowly, to get closer to Andrés. Andrés doesn’t make a move, not towards or away from him. He remains still, eyes flickering over his face, his breathing audible to Martín. 

So close he could see the slight cracks on his lips, the lines sketched on his face. He traced them with the back of his fingers, running it over the soft skin. Andrés’ eyes fluttered shut for a moment.

“Martín,” he whispered, shaking his head lightly as he rested his forehead on his. Martín stopped mid-motion, swallowing. Andrés took a sharp breath and pulled away. 

“You should get some rest.”

“Right,” Martín muttered. The disappointment colored his voice, but he didn’t move. He didn’t want to tear the space between them more. He glanced a bottle of wine on the floor behind Andrés, one they left there for celebration. In their usual hideout. They didn’t come out with anything. A miserable failure. But Martín didn’t really care. He suspects Andrés does either.

Andrés followed his gaze, then smiled. “I will not poison the blood you have left”

Martín laughed in response. “We survived, didn’t we? We have to celebrate that!”

They ended up drinking it. Passing it back and forth like two teenagers hiding behind their school. Andrés had laughed and shook his head, but when Martín offered it, he took it. They were huddled on the mattress, backs to the cold wall, but Andrés pulled Martín down on his back and propped himself on his elbow beside him. 

“You lied,” Andrés said after a moment 

Martín took a moment to catch what he said, his mind more muffled than would normally be after half a bottle of wine. “Lied?” 

“Yes,” he said, his eyes hazy, “about the gold. You said no one has done it before,”

_Oh_

Martín swallowed. He couldn’t really think of anything to say.

“That’s not true, someone else tried, years ago,” Andrés went on.

“Yes,” Martín finally said.

“They still don’t know who it was.”

“No, they don’t.”

“It was you, wasn’t it?”

Martín said nothing.

“Why?”

Andrés doesn’t have to specify. Martín understands. For the first time in decades, Martín thinks of the gold, and the image of revenge isn’t what comes to his mind. For the first time in decades, Martín thinks of the Gold, and blood isn’t what fills his eyes, not blood, not the bodies of those who fell before him, not the screams of those he knew their laughter by heart. 

“Can you imagine swimming amongst the gold?” he whispered, “Do you know how it shimmers under the water?”

He had spent years dreaming of it, a diver that went deeper into the oceans than anyone else had. He could take this, he had thought. He could touch what no one else had. A piece of hidden beauty, only for Martín.

He closes his eyes and mentally says his goodbyes to it. In another lifetime.

What does it have in comparison with this moment, anyway? With Andrés’ eyes shimmering in the darkness, with the faint light merging with his skin, with being so close to him he could feel his body heat, with getting to witness him.

To love him.

“They said no one had survived,” Andrés said, “how did you?”

He wonders what it would have been like, if he’d known him then. What wouldn’t he give to have him now, to have more time, just to be near him.

“I didn’t.”

He raised his eyebrow. “What happened, then?”

There’s a playful smirk on his face. A drunken, delirious conversation. But Andrés is gazing at him in this way, this way he couldn’t recognize at first, but he sees it now, he knows what it is. It’s how his own gaze must look, with all this grief in his heart.

“Well, I was welcomed into hell.”

Andrés hummed, low in his throat. Amused. “Oh, did you, now?”

Not Andrés. He’s not the one he grieves for. He’s beautiful, at the prime of his life. What couldn’t he have? There’s nothing denied to him. 

“Well, maybe not welcomed,” Andrés laughed. “There are men who Heaven and Hell fight for,” he turned slightly to meet his eyes, “and there are men like me, despised by both.”

He grieves for himself; for finding him too late. No, not even too late. What is this but stolen time? Martín was never meant to have him. Too early, too late. Those were empty words. The universe knew Martín didn’t deserve him; _this,_ this was the divinity he’s rightfully denied. And yet he’s so close, _so close._

“And what happened then? Tell me, what hell is like?”

He could touch him, if he only stretched out his hand.

“It’s-,” Martín starts, “It’s everything you’ve ever wanted just a breath away, just out of reach,” Andrés’ breath hitches on his side, “and when you reach it, it turns to ash in your palm. Then everything else does as well. It’s grey and hollow. The dullness of it threatens to swallow you whole, but it never does. You must bear it, always.”

Andrés was never his to have. He’ll never be. Fate made sure of it. The universe; hell and earth and the seven heavens stand between them. And yet, Martín could see it all clearly now. This invisible ghost; a monster that hid in his cells. He had come to think it was death, peering at him from the future. He understands now that it was only Andrés, stretching across time and space beyond anything possible, not to touch him, but to demand his own space. The emptiness Martín felt was designed for Andrés. 

Martín took a deep breath. “Then I was offered...something.”

“What was it?” Andrés half- whispered. “What was offered to you in death?”

 _Death,_ yes. 

_You,_ he wanted to say. 

_I’ve been a dead man, and you brought me back to life_ , he thought, _I’ve been a dead man long before I died. I’ve been a dead man my entire life. I was born dead, and you breathed life into me._

Martín’s answer rolled off his tongue swiftly.

“Salvation,” 

He grieves, yes. Having lived and died without an ounce of what he feels now, having found him way too late, late enough for only a taste of it all without ever knowing what it would be like sharing a life-time with him, in this stolen time. 

And Martín _is_ a thief. 

He turns his head slightly to the side, and Andrés is staring at him with bright eyes. “I recognize it now.”

But he refuses to steal this. Every theft is paid back. Only a fool would think otherwise. And Martín isn’t willing to pay now. Not if it’s Andrés’ soul. Not if it’s his life and death.   
  



	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Only one to go! Which will come pretty soon, I just realized this story took three months! 
> 
> Hope you enjoy this chapter!

They stayed in the hide-out for a few days, waiting for everything to quiet down on their own. Andrés took to attending to Martín’s wound. Which Martín couldn’t protest to. Even if he wanted to. For his part, Andrés never commented on any of his other old bullet wounds. 

He was gentler than Martín would have expected him to be. He didn’t strike Martín as a man who ever tended to anyone. Whether he was hiding more than Martín knew, or he was a natural at it, Martín found himself holding his breath every time he touched him.

It still surprised him, however, when Andrés insisted that Martín share his bed after they sneaked back to the apartment; arguing over what kind of host he would be if he left his wounded guest to sleep on the couch. Martín only chuckled and let it be.

They have shared the single mattress in the hideout, but this was quite different, on his bed, in his own bedroom. 

Martín had imagined it would be strange, with his feelings tainting the air, but it was nothing of the like. With Andrés’ peacefulness with it, it felt somehow natural, as if they have shared a bed their entire lives. In his heart of hearts, Martín longed to touch him, to have him, if only for once. But the way it happened, fulfilled something deeper inside him; it was a glimpse, however shallow, however small, of a normal life with him, going to sleep by his side, on a bed warmed by his body, sharing soft laughters deep into the night, hearing his sleep-infused voice finally give in, the phantom of their last smile still on his face, and his presence fill his consciousness even before the sun.

One night, while he was changing the gauges around Martín’s abdomen, and Martín felt the light touch of his fingers tracing his upper back, he spoke, intense but lowly, as if only treading around the heavy silence that grew between them, careful with not breaking it.

“We’ll get it right this time. I’ll make sure of it, Martín.”

Martín swallowed. He heard the unspoken words, _even if I’ll have to die,_ _especially if I have to die_.

Martín will neither allow him to kill nor get killed. He won’t allow him to die for this or anything else. 

He waited until Andrés fell asleep, then slipped out from under the covers, and carefully, out of the room. He brought the box with all the documents and collected all the scattered notebooks and papers tapped to the kitchen tiles. He grabbed the matchbox with his pack of cigarettes, then took them to the roof. 

He slid the box before him, then pulled himself up. Every sharp intake of air burned in his lungs and sides as he panted. The sharp night air hit him, voyaging from the nape of his neck to the tips of his fingers.

He took a moment to regain his breath, looking for the safest spot, and started collecting disregarded bushes over the roof. He gathered them in one heap. 

Still shivering, he managed to strike the match on the third trial. He looked down upon the orange light traveling from streetlamp to window, and from window to streetlamp. Following the trail of smoke, he glanced up at the sky, covered with scattered small clouds, the stars still shimmering regardless, dancing around the full-moon.

He threw the lit cigarette in the bushes and watched the flame feed and fatten on itself. He gazed upon it for a moment, and gladly found nothing in him regretting it, or wishing it was his killers he was burning alive. 

With no hesitation, he took out the first of his calculations, and just as he was about to throw it in, the sky roared. It was only for a moment, but Martín flinched at the sudden sound and raised his face to the sky, startled, and before he noticed how the fattened clouds covered up everything, the first rain hit his face. He closed his eyes, sighing, and lowered his face, knowing already what he’ll find upon opening his eyes.

Tokyo stood in front of him, on the other end of what was his made-shift fire, her short hair flying around her face, her twisted lips a glaring red in the darkness. The rain stopped just as suddenly as it came. 

Martín bit on his jaws and moved to make another, but the rain started again. And Tokyo spoke, her sharp voice cutting through the night.

“Have some sense, Martín. What good is this?”

He ignored her, and opened the box to the full. Let it get ruined by the rain then, but it stopped. 

Martín laughed, out of frustration and over how ridiculous this is. “Are you fucking serious?” he screamed, loud enough for the fucking puta in the depth of Hell to hear him. As if there’s any importance in a bunch of papers, but it’s Martín’s declaration.

“Hear me out, Martín! You don’t realize what you’re losing here. What are you doing this for? He’s already on his way, you can’t save him now.” She had her hand held in front of her, as if trying to speak him out of throwing himself off the roof. 

She walked closer to him, nearly whispering. “You’ll have more time, that’s what you want, isn’t it? You’ll continue with the plan and carry it out. It’s more time with him, no?” 

Martín nearly laughed, as if he would sacrifice Andrés’ eternal life for a few more months with him.

She paused, “And when it’s all over, you won’t even be there to regret it, you won’t be there to feel the loss- or anything else. You’ll have the eternal peace you wanted, think! Martín, this is what you’ll be losing.” 

At Martín’s lack of reaction, her tone hardened, “You won’t have him either way, what is it worth to live in eternal pain?” She raised her finger, hovering closer, “and what you thought before was torture will be nothing compared to what the professor has in store for you. Don’t be too stupid to think you’ll win this way.”

Martín only glared at her, breathing hard.

“You’re an idiot!” she spat, “Idiot! He doesn’t give a shit about you, do you think he loves you? That you’re worth anything to him? Are you pathetic enough to give everything up for a man who would disregard you the first opportunity he has? You’re only a tool for him to get the go-”

“You’re pounding up on my head.” A humorous voice cut through them. The sky cleared up at once and the moon rose from where it curled down under its throne. Martín whirled around.

“What are you doing up there in the middle of the night, and in the middle of a storm? Are you insane?” he laughed.

“A moment of fresh air,” he smiled half-heartedly at him. “I didn’t know it would rain, did the thunder wake you up?” he tried to ask in a casual tone. 

“Did the documents need a moment of fresh air as well?” his eyes flickered to the box by his side as he asked, his tone still light, but carrying a hint of interrogation. A hint of accusation. Tokyo’s words still lingered in the air even after she disappeared. 

“I was reading, making adjustments,” he said, and to make up for the anger in his voice, added: “A change of scenery does wonders, you have no idea.”

Andrés snorted. “Come down, you’ll mud the entire apartment.”

He followed Andrés, but neither of them went to sleep. Instead Andrés handed him dry clothes, and when he came out of the bathroom, he found Andrés laying the paper on the kitchen counter, airing them with a hair-dryer.

He didn’t glance up at Martín, but when he came closer, he pushed a cup of warm tea his way, still working on the papers with his other hand. Looking at him, you’d think him a doting mother drying off her beloved child.

Martín grabbed it and sat on the kitchen table.

“Were you talking to someone up there?” Andrés asked, his back to him. 

“I’m not on speaking terms with God,” Martín answered, his tone rejected the lightness. Even when Andrés chuckled, it was dry, humorless. 

Something grew between them, that tasted bitter on his tongue. Andrés finished his restoration in silence, then collected them and left the stack on the counter before going to sleep. Martín said he’ll follow him in a minute.

He turned off some of the light, and laid on the couch, facing the ceiling; Tokyo’s face the one haunting him this time. More, her words. She was right, logically. He’s reluctant to admit, but she is. Andrés might not even go to heaven without the plan. It’s not that what they have already done has been worth nothing. 

But it _is_ worth nothing to the professor, if not with the last, sealing step. Martín would be giving up the peace he was offered, the relief. And Andrés could still fall. Eternity is an awfully long time. 

Martín got up, went to the kitchen and stood staring at the vague shape of the documents in the darkness. She was right as well about Andrés. He knew she was merely using it to manipulate him, but there was truth in her words. Maybe he enjoyed his company, but without the plan, he wouldn’t want him.

Martín knew that without going with the plan, he would be snatched up anyway, whether Andrés wanted him or not. He knew this perfectly. He had it in mind, of course he did. 

And yet, it clawed at his insides. 

He moved to the couch again, only to lay for a couple of minutes before setting up. Then got up and went to the kitchen another time. He roamed the space like a restless ghost. 

Exhausting himself, he finally laid back and pulled the covers up himself. The faint sunlight crept up, reaching from beyond the window to illuminate the living room. He went on staring mindlessly at the ceiling, undisturbed by it. Only his eyes were sore a little, with a slight headache.

But when he heard Andrés’ bedroom open, and his shouted, bright ‘good morning’ from behind the counter, it dawned on him, like a revelation; clear and bright and with no need for interpretation: that it doesn’t matter at all. It doesn’t matter. Whether Andrés wants him or not- whether Andrés loves him or not.

_He_ loves him. This is more than enough. And he’s more than worth Martín’s love. And if there’s a chance he’s not doomed, then Martín will do everything in his power to assert it. Even if Martín will have to bear twice the suffering, twice the eternity.

As long as Andrés could be alright, as long as he could get his chance in life and Heaven. Even if he doesn’t, Martín won’t be the one who had this to him. 

Even if Martín will cut his time with him short. Even if he’ll never lay his eyes upon his face again. 

Martín let them have the rest of the day. His last in this paradise. They went out to the balcony to have breakfast. Despite the random storm of last night, the day was bright and sufficiently warm. And Martín didn’t take his eyes off him for a moment, memorizing every line, every expression. If this is the only thing he’s taking with him, it’s more than enough.

“Tatiana is nearly done with her tour,” he said suddenly, “We’re moving to Italy. Florence.” He smiled, “What do you think?” He didn’t let Martín answer, “I had enough money now to get us a big house, in the middle of the city. It’s perfect.”

Martín smiled at him, and Andrés went on. “We could do the rest of the planning there, we need more space,” he grinned, “any serious artist must practice in Italy anyway.”

He took a sip of his coffee. “And you’ll finally get your own room! If we went on like this, your back will be broken before we get to break into the bank,” he snorted, something slightly strange in his tone, as if they were roleplaying.

Martín smiled back, nodding meaninglessly. Andrés narrowed his eyes at him, his own smile faltering slightly. 

They didn’t talk much this day, not about the plan or anything else. The stack of documents remained in its place on the kitchen counter. Martín couldn’t bring himself to say anything untrue, so he didn’t say anything at all. He was almost scared of tainting his last morning with him. Of touching it at all. 

He would have eternity to grieve, he shouldn’t waste the last time he’ll be in his presence, but looking upon his face, as he painted behind his canvas peacefully, Martín couldn’t help thinking of all the what-ifs. Couldn’t help but feel this unfairness deep in the marrow of his bones, feeling like a stillborn’s mother.

Andrés glanced up at him, and Martín smiled at him, almost instinctively. Andrés fixed his gaze for a minute, and it seemed to Martín, only for a moment, that the sadness folded in this smile matched his own. However little sense this made. But it felt as if Andrés knew, as if their bond really cut this deep, as if Andrés could see through him.

Despite it all, the silence between them was peaceful. Not comfortable, not exactly, but peaceful. Or maybe it was only Martín. Maybe it was only inside him; despite the pain, this sense of peace engulfed it, not numbing it, but soothing. 

Rarely does anyone know of their loss beforehand. Loss was like that, sudden and without any sense. But Martín knew, he was lucky only this way. 

He wanted more. Not from him, no. He wanted more time just to be in his presence, to look upon his face, to take in his features, to have his voice ingrained in his memory, but the day faltered too quickly, too soon.

But no. There’s a limit to everything.

Andrés had left the painting chapel to get dressed, and when he was done, he passed by Martín, still working on his cuffs.

He looked up at him, “How do I look?”

“Powerful,” he breathed. “Beautiful.”

Andrés grinned. And Martín couldn’t help smiling. 

Andrés was about to say something, but Martín had already gotten up, interrupting him. 

“Andrés, listen…”

“What is it?” Andrés walked closer in the room, while Martín moved slightly towards the door.

“We must scrap the plan.”

Andres didn’t look surprised. To Martin’s slight dismay, he looked as if he accepted it. 

“Can we talk about this later? I’m going to dinner with Tatiana.”

“No, I-” Martin took a shaky breath, “I have to leave. I won’t be here when you get back.”

“Why?”

He swallowed, straightening his back. “The plan is a disaster, it’ll fail again. There’s no point in pretending otherwise.” He paused. “There’s nothing else for me here.”

He had meant for his voice to be neutral, matter-of-factly, but it sounded only pleading to him now. For what he couldn’t understand, he already made his decision.

Andrés only nodded. He knows Andrés won’t carry out the plan without him, there’s no way for him to. 

Martín didn’t want to burden him with his love, didn’t want him to feel the loss of someone who loved him then disappeared, so he didn’t say another word.

He didn’t allow his lingering to persist. It felt that if he didn’t walk away right this moment, he would never be able to. At least this still carried dignity. He won’t be snatched away as he clutched to him. It was still his choice. It had to be, had to be his intention for it to work. His body won’t turn against him, so he turned and walked away. 

He had strode half-way down the hallway.

“Do you think I don’t love you?” 

It was a little more than a whisper, with none of the bravado usually found in his voice; raw. He stopped mid-motion, his heart beating itself out of his chest.

Against his better judgment, he turned, his breath not daring to depart from his lungs, and took small steps towards him, his legs moving against his will.

“I feel it too, Martín-” He paused. Whatever he was going to say next was lost, he realized, with Andrés’ lips between his, his arms clutching at his back. Every semblance of composure evaporating out of him.

When Andrés kissed him back, despite his initial hesitation, Martín knew what it truly meant to shatter, to be only held whole by the hands grasping his face. He suddenly wanted to laugh, or cry. A dam had opened inside him, something he didn’t know was locked.

In spite of Martín’s awareness that this fruit of life and death is only rotten at the core, he only needed a nudge to bite. He still, selfishly, recklessly, yearned for it, for him; he wanted to know, to taste him, even if just once. 

But no. There is a limit to everything. He pulled away, and upon tearing himself away from his lips, he recognized that what he thought was hell was nothing. Nothing in comparison with this. 

Andrés took a sharp breath, and there was a tinge of resignation in his expression, of knowledge, _understanding._ He nodded before Martín said anything, letting go of Martín,, straightening himself. It felt unnecessary to say anything to him then, to offer a tainted explanation for either of them.

If Andrés faulted himself for Martín leaving now, he won’t in a month, in the arms of his wife, in the life awaiting him. After all, Martín will leave the way he came. Soon enough, he will be a smudged, unreal memory. A short interlude in a life he had no right to even witness.

What could he say anyway, how could he explain the sheer impossibility of this? What difference would it make to even tell him of his love, when Andrés obviously knew, and it obviously lacked the power to do anything?

Martín took a deep breath, forbidding the tears from falling, then rasped out: “Goodbye, Andrés.” 

_‘In another world,’_ he wanted to add, but there was no truth in it. 

Andrés only smiled at him, for the last time, but he smiled as if it wasn’t. Martín couldn’t bear it. So he turned and walked away.

He didn’t repeat Orpheus’ mistake.

\-----------------------

  
Martín glanced at the office. He thinks he understands now the Professor’s choice for ordering it into something so ordinary, so human-like. And yet, meticulously imperfect, _wrong_ , a twisted human room, with nothing at all human about it. Nothing at all alive. Exactly like the body, the shape he crafted for himself. The more Martín looks, really _looks_ , the more it jumps out at him, like a dead, stolen skin only stitched around him. A self-made Frankenstein monster. 

“You were this close, Martín,” Sergio said, pinching his thumb with his forefinger, “ _this close._ A massacre! A massacre with the Devil himself watching your back, and yet, instead of clearing your name, gaining some honour that you never tasted in your life-” he paused, taking his glasses off and rubbing his eyes, as if he couldn’t possibly grasp what changed, “You failed. Again. As you’ve always had.”

Martín shifted his gaze to Tokyo leaning on the other wall, seemingly lost in thought, a grim expression painted all over her face. 

“Was this your revenge? Your childish grudge against me?”

At this Martín laughed, and the longer Sergio stared at him, the more hysterical it became. Oblivious idiot. Tokyo looked between them, uncharacteristically silent. Strangely, when she looked at Martín, it wasn’t with a matching anger to her Professor. There was something else instead.

Sergio smiled at him then, a twisted thing, not even attempting to hide the anger.

“Congratulations, Martín. You’ve doomed yourself, but it was your choice, of course. After all, all of you have free will, don’t you? You had free will, and you chose to condemn yourself, exactly like the first time.”

“As if you could understand a thing about free will, as if you even know what it is.” Martín grinned, “Doesn’t it bother you, eh? That you’re exactly what He made you be? That you’re fulfilling the role exactly made for you?” he laughed.

“We’ll see if you’ll feel the same when you think an eternity has passed, and it’ll be only one moment, stretched out beyond your imagination, when it’ll be a hundred times longer for you than _anyone else_ , and every single zeptosecond of it is only suffering, that you’ll _never_ grow immune to. We’ll see then if you don’t regret what you’ve done.”

Martín nodded. “You can do all of this and more, and you will still never have him,” he smiled, bearing all his teeth, “Do you hear me? Never.” 

Sergio only stared at him, dripping red disturbing the brown of his eyes. 

“Do you think you’re revolutionary, that you’re better?” Martín barked out a laugh, “You’re a hypocrite, Professor. A coward who won’t admit who he is. A cast out. Nothing more.”

Sergio smiled, tight-lipped and carefully composed.

“Very well.” Then turning to Tokyo, “Take him.”

When they were out, just the two of them; Tokyo walking beside him, calm, Martín felt the urge to say it again, speak it out, in a desperate hope that it reaches him. That it turns true just by his sheer will. A prayer, almost.

“You’re not going to lay a finger on him, you won’t have him. Not now, and not ever.”

To his surprise, Tokyo nodded solemnly, looking afar; beyond what Martín could see. “No, it doesn’t seem like it.”

Martín wonders what she knows. What she sees that he couldn’t. If she could see him, sense him. 

Martín turned to face forward then, as they walked, seemingly indefinitely, in silence.

After a moment, Tokyo spoke, in a tone so unlike anything she had ever used with him. “Falling for a human is a terrible thing, isn’t it?” 

Martín said nothing. He could neither affirm in the positive nor the negative. Because yes, it’s terrible, the most terrible thing there is. But his love for Andrés is his, it’s _his_. And there is nothing, no one that could pry it out of him. 

“There is no worse mistress than time.” Tokyo went on, “The only one you can’t compete against.” 

The look on her face was more than enough for Martín to realize she wasn’t speaking about him anymore. Perhaps she never was. Despite the young facade, she looked old to Martín then. Older than is bearable.

“Why are you telling me this, Tokyo? I lost. Shouldn’t you be gloating?”

“We didn’t tell you, the Professor and I, but let me tell you this now.”

Martín laughed, “You sure love doing that.”

“And? You’re so used to being the one who talks, talks, talks, you think you know everything, but you don’t. You’re an ignorant man like all the others.”

“What is it I don’t know, then?”

“He’s dying.”

He doesn’t know what he expected to hear, but it wasn’t this. “He’s sick, barely any time left. This is why we sent you.”

Martín’s heart fell with a thud in his stomach. He wanted to protest, _‘no_ ’ as if Tokyo had any power to change it. It all stood clear to him now. He started shaking with the anger, he’s dying and he’s dying alone, without him.

“And you’re telling me this now?” he snapped instead.

“As if you wouldn’t have used it to your favor,” she bit back, “You had the necessary information,” she paused, “would you have stayed if you knew?” she smirked, “I wonder what would be your choice then, Martín, would you have stayed by his side only to bring him here?”

He turned away, trying to steady his fists.

She snorted. “Yeah, I thought so.”

“This is how you gloat? A pretty cheap move, Tokyo. Even for you.”

“Would you shut up and listen? Just for once in your miserable existence?”

He took a deep breath. 

“What I’m telling you is that he couldn’t hold on to you if he wanted to, if you were even his to have.”

Martín laughed bitterly, “And did he? Since you know everything.”

Truth is, it doesn’t matter all, what difference could it ever make, whether Andrés had loved him. And Andrés’ cruelty didn’t pass him by, he’s not naïve. He knows he could have only told Martín this to make him stay, to carry out the plan. Many times, Martín was on the other side of this. But still, Martín found himself clutching to it like a child, desperate to hear the answer.

“Do you know what’s happening up there?” she raised her hand behind her ear slightly, “Could you hear them?”

There was only silence. Tokyo’s eyes were glinting.

“They are applauding him.” she smiled. “It was you. You were his masterpiece, Martín.”

“The Gold?”

“No, no. He went back to his real art. He painted you, ‘ _The Bleeding Painting’_ they call it, for the remarkable red spilling out of your figure. Truth is, -I watched him, it wasn’t all intentional, with the shaking of his hands. The sickness is beyond his control now. It’ll be his last.” 

Martín breathed.

“It’s beautiful,” she said, “and it earned him the recognition he had always yearned for. Too bad, he’s far beyond appreciating it, far beyond anything really.”

Martín walked ahead, Tokyo by his side, until they reached a door. Tokyo stopped and turned to him, her hand on the doorknob, her face somber.

“You’ll pay for what you’ve done, for the wasted risks we took,” Martín nodded, “but what I wanted to tell you, Martín, is this.” She stopped, turning fully to him, “Your betrayal..it’s no betrayal at all.”

Martín said nothing, unsure what game she was playing.

“I would have done the same thing,” then with a devilish smile, “I have, in fact.” She winked and opened the door behind Martín. 

It took Martín a while to figure what the punishment was. It didn’t seem different at first. He had thought it pure solitude at first. And it might be. The silence, the utter silence that couldn’t possibly be found in any place on earth, is enough to send him insane. But he had recognized two nights later, he’s derived from any sleep. Not for a single moment. 

He doesn’t know how Sergio did it, but he was fully wide awake to experience every silent moment. Only his mind, like his body, didn’t break. All pain was at once unbearable and ineffective in any actual damage. It was like falling into a bottomless abyss. 

He was fully awake, sane, alone, all the time, with only his mind. What a privilege insanity was, he realized, what a release. But no, even what his mind constantly subjugated him, with all its power, never fully transferred him, he was always here and nowhere else. He was always painfully aware of this. And Andrés was wherever he was. Suffering, where Martín couldn’t reach him.

His solitude was broken only once. He couldn’t possibly mark the time, so he doesn’t know how long it was before Tokyo came to him. It could have been months or years, weeks or hours.

“I thought you should know,” she said. And Martín was so relieved for a moment, that he wasn’t even bothered that it was Tokyo out of everyone. That he didn’t think why she would ever reach out to him. Martin felt it before he thought it, ringing out through his body.

“He’s dead,” he said.

“At the hands of his wife.”

Martín startled, “what?”

“Out of mercy, she gave him a semblance of dignity. A tainted cup of tea is much better than the rest of the suffering he would have undergone.”

Martín was too stunned. There was nothing for him to say.

“He went peacefully,” she said, finally. There wasn’t a smile on her face, but no malice either.

“Where?” he asked.

“What do you think?” she snipped sharply, “Can’t you hear Heaven’s rejoice, Martín?”

Martín breathed, relieved. It wasn’t all for nothing. They’ll never have him. He won. 

“A martyr for a sickness beyond human intelligence,” she sighed, “pitiful, really,” she dragged as she turned to walk away.

“Tokyo.”

She turned her head slightly to him.

“Thank you. For telling me.”

She huffed up a smile and turned again. He won.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on [Tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/nharidy). Don't be a stranger.


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